Bring Me to Life
by IceCliff
Summary: "The Opera Ghost really existed." Orphaned with a horrible past, Christine moves into his Opera House, hardly living. But Erik is a ghost, long dead, hoping to cross over, hoping to forget his lost wife. When it comes to the ultimate sacrifice, can he save her? More is at stake than just hearts, but rather souls, and life and death. KayLerouxALW.
1. The End of Futility

**This is shockingly against my better judgment, as I currently have another story, ****Even Though It's Breaking, ****still unfortunately unfinished, and I haven't updated it in about two years (I can't believe I let that happen) but somehow this story crept up on me and it's calling to me more than the other one is. I somehow took a break from Phantom but last week I was privileged to see Phantom Las Vegas (which was so beautiful, it brought me to tears in the first five minutes, never mind the storyline… I mean the sets and the stage and just… everything) and now my obsession is back in very, very full force. I hope, as always that this story pleases and even (fingers crossed!) elicits reviews from my dear readers! **

**PLEASE READ: So I guess a few things need to be cleared up: This story is slightly AU, as you will notice. The story opens on the retirement of Poligny and Debienne, but Erik has not been asking them for money or put any clauses in the lease of the opera up to this point. I take the character of Charles Garnier from Susan Kay's phantom, except in this story he never saw Erik's face, as he did in the book. As far as this Erik's past goes, he spent time in all the same places all Eriks spend time (Rouen, Javert's cage, Italy, Russia, Persia) except that he never met Nadir Khan, and thus made no friends while in Persia, and escaped by his own means. As for Christine's history… well, you'll see.**

**This story takes place a month or so before the gala night which begins the original book, however I've had to change some historical dates to make things work they way I want them to… but usually people don't pay attention to the history anyway, so let's ignore all of that. If you are curious, my timeline makes the work on the Opera finished in 1861, and this current chapter is taking place in 1881.**

**Please enjoy!**

"All houses wherein men have lived and died

Are haunted houses. Through the open doors

The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,

With feet that make no sound upon the floors."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

He wondered if Poligny and Debienne would consider it worthwhile to inform their successors of his presence in the Opera House. After all, he hadn't made such a horrible fuss, except when he heard a truly appalling affront to music and saw fit to inform M. Gabriel or M. Mercier, both of whom he found generally willing to bend to his criticism. It was a mild irritation to him that they had decided to sell the Opera at all, but he figured in the end nothing much would changed. He hoped nothing would change. He had been in these walls so long that he couldn't countenance even the slightest change in the way things worked.

Twilight fell over Apollo's Lyre and Erik pulled his gaze from the incredible growth of the Paris skyline. He hadn't been outside the walls of his beloved cage in so many years; each newer and bigger building on the horizon never failed to amaze him. He slipped through the floor and down across hallways towards the catwalks above the stage, where the company was making beginning preparations for the farewell gala performance in honor of the managers' retirement. Erik closed his eyes and felt himself drift into oblivion, listening to the music beneath him.

_Oh, how strange!_

Erik thought, unbidden, of Emily.

_Like a spell does the evening bind me!_

The memory was so old, so brittle, as she rose up in front of his eyes, her painfully skinny form bent over in the hacking coughs that ended her young life, her blond hair falling confusedly over her face.

_And a deep languid charm_

He had watched her die in the Opera infirmary, whose services she had been entitled to, watched her new husband and her little children gathered around her bed as she spoke quietly, lovingly, to each of them. He hung in the shadows, the last pain of her existence slowly being expunged from his heart at each of her shallow breaths.

_I feel without alarm_

He wondered if she had thought of him, in the last moments of her life.

_With its melody enwind me_

He cursed himself, as he had a thousand times, cursed himself for loving her, cursed himself for wanting her, cursed himself for ever, ever deluding himself into thinking that someone could be different.

_And all my heart subdue._

Some people like Charles had at least tried to show him some pity. The truth was that Charles had never seen his face anyway. They had spent years together building the National Academy of Music, and had even developed a tenuous friendship—the first in his life- but Garnier had never seen behind the mask, and Erik could only assume that this was what had led him to offer his sister's hand in marriage. Emily had been—beautiful. Lyrical, like a poem.

There was no use thinking of her now, now that she was long dead and buried. When their marriage fell apart, Erik's correspondence with Charles broke down as well, leaving him quite alone in a world which hated him more than anything, driving him down into the cellars of the Opera, where he had begun to construct his palace, his mausoleum. He wished he had thought of this while they were still building the structure, but he had been too focused on Emily, too focused on affairs above ground, affairs of men. Once he had renounced all that lived above, he saw that the subterranean lake in all of its glory was the perfect setting for him to build his future—alone.

Erik leaned over the catwalk and cast his eyes over his Opera Company as Sorelli lead the _corps de ballet_ in a rather fumbling rendition of _Polyeucte_. Half way through they were stopped and told to start again, and Erik's eye was caught by a girl who stood awkwardly in the chorus, a second or two off each beat, and mouthing the words more than singing them. He frowned, and descended into the orchestra pit, melting into the shadows, watching this girl as the chorus moved across the stage. G-d! She had no sense of movement at all, and not a sound came from her lips. How had such a girl come to be in his company? Surely there must have been a mistake, or she was someone's daughter, or niece, or some patron's plaything—she was very pretty, at that. He leaned in closer, trying to get a good look at her, but all he saw was a flash of her bright blue eyes before little Jammes stepped out of her line and pointed directly at him.

"The Opera Ghost!"

_Dammit. _Erik quickly slipped into the shadows, far enough away so that no one would see him, and in the ensuing commotion Meg Giry screeched and pulled Jammes away, tripping on a small girl tying her ballet slipper and knocking the lot of them down onto that poor girl upon whom Erik's eyes had rested. G-d, could Giry scream. Erik rubbed his ears absentmindedly. She could give Carlotta a run for her money, any day. There were echoing cries of 'Opera Ghost! Opera Ghost!' before Sorelli impatiently stamped her foot and the ballerinas all struggled to get up as quickly as possible.

All but one.

That girl—she was blond, he could see, and skinny and sickly looking—remained crumpled on the floor, her small chest heaving.

"Christine?" One of the other chorus girls tugged on her arm, but she pulled it away, fastening her arms around her knees and she pulled them to her chest. Sorelli watched from afar, irritated at the holdup but unsure what to do.

"What's wrong with her?" She asked uncertainly. There was a responding titter from the _corps de ballet, _and Erik immediately felt for the young blond. The poor girl… humiliated in front of everyone.

Christine raised her head, and he saw her eyes dart quickly between each of the girls, looking for a friend, a support, and finding none.

"_Hjälp mig, snälla_," she whispered, only receiving more laughs muffled behind palms from the group. Erik sighed, and turned away, fading into the blackness as he had so many times before, thinking of that small, fragile voice. He hadn't heard Swedish in quite some time, hadn't needed to make use of it in even longer, but even he could translate a cry for help. Poor girl, he thought. _Poor Christine._

* * *

Erik watched from the window, staring out longingly onto the streets of Paris, wishing to feel the fresh cold air upon his face, wishing to feel real snow fall upon his hands just one more time. He sighed, resigning himself to counting a flock of chickens who had escaped from their owner, watching as each one flapped its wings hysterically and drove the poor man quite crazy. He would have thought such a show was amusing, in the past, but now he would give all he had to be that very man. _Everything is monotony_, he thought. _Everything is futile._ He fell away from the window, wondering if it was worth it to try to convince the outgoing managers that La Carlotta was indeed the worst thing to come upon Paris. He thought, at least, that he could write a new letter to them, suggesting a few changes to the staging of the gala.

Slipping through the corridors, he thought of that poor young blond—Christine, the Swede—and thought maybe he could put in a good word for her, as well. But what would he say? That she danced like a frog, but they should let her stay anyway? He risked offending whoever had put her in the chorus anyway, and honestly he just wasn't up to it. If that new patron—what was his name? Damn—that one, with the young brother with the stupid moustache… Erik couldn't remember their name for the life of him, and it only served to irritate him further. He remembered it was a very powerful French family, one he had come across once, once long ago, with his wife on his arm…

_Damn you, Emily. _The thought passed through his mind only briefly, along with the memory of the perfume she had been wearing that night, and the family crest on the brougham that had picked up the young nobles—ah yes, Chagny! Of course, that count and his three siblings… Erik remembered the old Count, the one who had since died, the Count Philibert de Chagny and his sickly wife, the Countess de Chagny-née de Moerogis de la Martynière. Yes, he remembered them, remembered when the news of her death in childbirth shook Paris, and when Count Philippe had taken control of the family. He wondered if the Count was supporting the young dancer, or if he was completely off on his estimation of her. In any case it didn't matter… all he was going to say to Poligny was that the staging for the finale, Faust, should be much more elaborate, and that they should make very certain that Carlotta can actually sing the Opera. From what he had heard the other day, there was no hope.

"And he is the one who makes those dreadful sounds that come from the trapdoors above the balcony, and he moans, I tell you—no, don't laugh, I've heard it!—he moans through the corridors and haunts the Opera, wearing nothing but evening dress!"

"Come Jammes," came a voice from below. Erik glanced down at the voices beneath him, wanting to be amused at her truly creative imagination, but having no strength, no desire to feel. "Why would the ghost wear evening dress?"

"So as not to be out of place at the Opera."

All of the girls laughed and began to pass by her, but she called after them indignantly. "I've seen him, I tell you. He wears the finest evening dress and his face is black like the night, atop a skeleton as thin as that new chorus girl, that Daaé girl—oh—"

Christine stood behind Jammes, staring straight ahead of her, blushing. Did the girl have no sense of self at all? No will to live? No fighting spirit? _Is she as dead as I?_

Jammes dug her toes into the ground, wiping her hands on her skirts. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean…"

Christine merely blinked at Jammes. "Tell me more of this Opera Ghost," she said. Erik strained to hear her. She talked more quietly than a sleeping man's contented breaths, and her accent slurred her French around the edges. Jammes lit up.

"He's been at the Opera House as long as anyone can remember." Jammes slipped an arm around Christine, more than happy to have found someone to listen to her tales. Forgetting his quest to find the managers for a moment, Erik followed them, half a floor up, trying to stay well hidden within the shadows. Why did he care? He didn't know… if he truly admitted it to himself, it was because he finally had something interesting to do. And… because she reminded him of himself, this girl.

"Why is he here?" asked the young Swede.

"Nobody knows," Jammes said, smirking. He could see the evil machinations of her mind working quickly. "Legend has it that he was a great singer here, when the Palais Garnier opened, but a terrible, terrible tragedy befell him on the first opening night."

Christine's blue eyes widened and she stopped in her tracks to look at Jammes. "What happened?"

Jammes took a quick glance around her. "He—they say—he fell. He fell from a stage piece and onto the knife of a fellow actor. Yes, they were playing _Romeo and Juliet_, you see, and back then they still used a real sword, because the Opera was so new and they hadn't procured a false one…"

"That's terrible." Her face paled considerably. She glanced in all the shadows around her and drew closer to Jammes. Erik sighed. What a horrible thing to do to a new girl, to make her afraid of the building, when she was already afraid of the people…

"Yes," Jammes smiled. "Isn't it? They say that he cursed the Opera after that night, and vowed to haunt every performance, forever."

He could see Christine shiver. "Has he ever hurt anyone?" she whispered.

"No, not yet, anyway."

Erik frowned. He had never touched a hair upon a single worker's head.

"But what if we anger him?" Christine tore at the lace on her long sleeves.

Jammes considered her for a long while, and then said, in a similar hushed tone, "I don't know, Christine. I've heard that he has terrible, awful ways of punishing people who anger him."

"But—" the girl's voice broke, and Erik really felt bad for her. Jammes had always been a little mischievous, but he had never really thought she was this _evil. _"—but what angers him? Do we know?"

Jammes leaned in close. "They say that he does not like those who walk alone in his house at night. Take care, Christine!" And she ran off, giggling, leaving the young blond standing in the middle of the darkened hallway, shivering. Erik saw a mouse run past her feet and she nearly screeched, pulling her arms in on herself and beginning a mad dash through the hallways, tripping here and there as he followed her, silently, from above. She took turns at an alarming pace, sliding through doorways on her fragile ballet slippers, eventually colliding head to chest—she cut a tiny figure—with a young trap-door shutter with brown hair, one whose name he could not recall at all, but who caught her flailing form in his strong arms and held her steady.

"No," she shouted. "No, let go! Let go." She sobbed, breaking free of him and falling backwards into a wall. She stared at the man, who had put his hands up in a sort of retreating gesture, and slowly realized that he was not, in fact, the Opera Ghost.

He approached her slowly. "Are you all right?"

She didn't seem to know what to say, and instead simply stood there, back against the wall.

Erik couldn't believe how weak-willed she was. Wasn't there anything to her? Any substance at all?

The boy offered his hand. "My name is Alain. I shut trap doors."

"I am terribly frightened," she said.

He smiled only briefly. "What is your name?"

"Christine." Her voice shook and she glanced about her, looking, no doubt, for Erik's evening jacket.

"You're the new girl, aren't you? The one from the orphanage."

Christine merely blinked at him, but this piqued Erik's interest. Had the orphanage broken her, turned her into this timid little field mouse? And how had a Swedish orphan made her way into the Opera?

"Come with me. I'll show you the Opera."

Christine eyed his hand with trepidation, but after a second placed her thin hand in his and he squeezed it gently and led her through a trap-door that Erik knew would lead to more of the residential corridors. Glad to see the girl had finally made a friend, Erik dropped down from the uncomfortable position he had been in and made his way quickly through the corridor Christine had just been standing in, towards the grand staircase and the managers' main offices. He felt his existence stretch before him as a long, endless parade of unwanted memories and pain. He wanted nothing more than to sleep a peaceful, eternal sleep, but he knew that could never be granted him. Nothing had interested him, it seemed, in years. He yearned for something to catch his eye, something to make him understand why he was still here, why he was cursed, why the universe reserved him for such special, horrid torture…

"You are not supposed to be here."

Erik stopped dead in his tracks. Two things he processed in quick succession. One, a person had spoken to him. A real, living person had spoken to him, addressed him, something that had not happened to him in so many, many years. Two, the accent was one he recognized immediately. Persia. Although the memory was distant, it was not one he could easily forget. He lifted his eyes to look at his opponent.

Why didn't he flee? It would have been so easy for him to slip under the floor, through the walls, up into the ceiling… why did he stay? He looked into the dark man's green eyes, shaded by a lock of black hair that fell from under his red fez, and he knew exactly why. No matter what kind of interaction it was, he needed it. He craved it.

"You are _not _supposed to be here," the man said again.

Erik narrowed his eyes, cautiously clearing his throat before he spoke, acknowledging that it had been a torturously long time since he had communicated with other human being.

"And who are you to tell me this?" he asked.

"I am Nadir Khan. I am a seer."

Erik's heart skipped a beat. A seer! A seer! This man… this man could be his salvation. Erik was suddenly standing much closer to the man than he had intended, but the Persian did not seem fazed.

"I am here to see that you cross over."

Cross over? The words sounded glorious in Erik's ears, more wonderful than any Opera he had written while alive. For how many years had he haunted this palace, watched people die and wither away, watched new people take their places, chained unalterably to the place of his death, not able to leave the confines of the Opera House, wondering, hoping, yearning for the day to come when he could finally, finally move on?

"Please," Erik asked. "Tell me everything."

**And yes, so there it is! I do hope you enjoyed this first chapter. I realize it is short… It seems that the story is going to be remarkably darker than I had originally anticipated, but I blame it on the Christine that came to my fingers, one who is much more helpless than I realized. **

**Anyway as I said, the dates are kind of all fudged, so please don't go and try to make sense of them, especially in context of any French history because then it'll be completely wrong. Let's just assume that Erik has been haunting the Opera house for about twenty years.**

**And yes, about the haunting business! Truly, I hope you liked it… Erik, a real ghost! This is way more AU than I thought it would be! I came up with this about a week ago and I've been really interested to see where it leads me. Obviously his past is somewhat altered, as is Christine's, but I do hope you guys enjoyed this first chapter, as I hope to have several new ones up as soon as possible. In the interest of that.., please REVIEW! **

**Please? Review? Please? Make Erik happy! :P**

**~Ice Cliff**


	2. Operaspöke

**- I've edited this chapter since it has been posted- To anyone who is confused, I basically changed the length of the chapters. I added on parts of the old chapter three to the end of this chapter, for reasons of better flow. **

**Hello, favored ones : ). Thank you so much for the reviews of the last chapter! I hope you enjoyed it! It is beyond a pleasure for me to bring the next one to you. One thing I forgot to mention: each chapter contains a stanza from the poem **_**Haunted Houses, **_**by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, which can be found in his ****Complete Poetical Works****, published 1893.**

"We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,

Along the passages they come and go,

Impalpable impressions on the air,

A sense of something moving to and fro."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

He had countless questions for the seer. Why was he stuck here, in this horrible limbo? Why could no one hear him? Why couldn't he leave the confines of the Opera House?

M. Khan answered each of his questions patiently.

"There is clearly something that has been holding you back, Monsieur," he said, "which we will soon endeavor to unearth. I suspect that you cannot leave the Opera House because this is the place where you were killed. Am I right to assume such?"

Erik nodded, barely breathing. His freedom, at last!

"As for others… you are a ghost. They can see you, but they cannot hear you. The veil between the worlds is thin, but not that thin. People like me, seers, those with heightened senses, we can hear you. We can help you."

"How did you find me?"

M. Khan sighed. "I do not make it a habit to go in search of ghostly figures. As it happened, I had heard talk of an Opera Ghost at the last performance I was at, and I was curious… usually such things are merely rumors. But then I saw you, at the last Opera, and I knew I had to cross you over."

"Why?" In fact, there were many things Erik wanted to know. Why was this Persian here in France? What business had he at the Opera?

"That is my calling. I have a gift. I must use it."

"Couldn't you simply… ignore us?"

"Is that what you wish?"

"No!" M. Khan nodded at the intensity of Erik's answer, and he himself was surprised at the outburst. "G-d no," he said. He hadn't wanted anything, hadn't felt anything, in years. It felt so good to speak again, to work his vocal cords and hear himself think and know that he existed.

"I didn't think so. Most spirits are completely unaware that they even have the option of leaving. I must help you find your way."

"And your way, M. Khan? You are a long way from Persia."

M. Khan eyed him. "Indeed. You seem to be very knowledgeable. I wonder what manifestation of your soul has caused you to wear a mask on your ghost."

"_What_?" Erik stepped away, quickly, and hid himself in the shadows. _No, no, not this, not this, please not this. I was so close, so close…_

"You can't hide from me, Monsieur." The seer followed him into the shadows, and Erik began to slip through the wall, but M. Khan grabbed onto his coattails.

"Where are you going?" he demanded. "Do you run so quickly from your freedom?"

"You ask for what I cannot give, M. Khan," Erik answered, pulling himself free, feeling anger, twisted and ugly, from so many years ago, rise up in his chest.

"I am only here to help you," the Persian repeated.

Erik met eyes with him. Maybe he could trust him. Maybe the world had changed more than he thought, in these past years, maybe he could finally let go…

"We shall start with the mask."

"_No!" _Erik turned away with all his force and collapsed on the other side of the wall, sliding down the dark wood until he lay on the floor, gasping. _No… no…_ he could never be free, never. People would never change, he knew that. People would always want to know, want to own him, use him, leave him… never. He would haunt the Palais Garnier until it crumbled to dust before he ever let anyone touch his mask again.

He wanted to cry, but he didn't have enough energy. He slouched against the wall, hearing as the Persian pounded against the wood, crying out to him. _No. Never. _He shuddered against himself, the memories coming, as they always would, and he tried to push them away, tried to push away the screams, the tears. And when the Persian finally stalked off, his boots slamming loudly on the ground, Erik heard another scream, one not coming from within his own mind. He listened carefully for several seconds, trying to decide if this was something he really needed to see, or if he could simply curl up on the roof and watch the stars fade away.

"_Hjälp mig, snälla."_

The sound seemed to pierce his ears, and in the space of a second he was both concerned and annoyed. Could the girl do nothing for herself? Then—who was harming her? He cursed the two of them, himself for caring enough about the Swedish waif to lift himself from his misery and slip through the floor when he had cared for nothing in decades, and her, for having no goddamn sense of self-preservation. He followed the screams, mostly in Swedish, trying to figure out where that boy had taken her that had scared her so… had he left her alone, somewhere dark? Was she afraid of the Opera Ghost? Funny, because it seemed that was exactly what she was going to get.

He rounded a corner and all breath left him. There was nothing funny in her garbled screams, muffled by the hand that held her down as she sobbed. _G-d. G-d. _He sprung into action.

"Don't touch her!" He yelled, frustrated when the boy did not hear him. Damn being a ghost! Damn it to hell! He wrapped his fingers around the boy's shoulders, smelling the foul odors of alcohol and sweat, and wrenching him from Christine, who lay naked, shuddering against the hard floor. He threw him against the wall, and the boy hit the ground with a loud thud before shaking his head drunkenly and trying to stand, his clothes hanging off of him in awkward rags. He sauntered towards Erik, who tensed, trying to block the boy's view of Christine.

"So," he drawled. "The Opera Ghost comes to your rescue, does he, girl?"

"Don't speak to her!" Erik shouted, but he knew it was in vain. Instead he did the only thing he could think of, which was the grab the boy by his middle and go up, up, as far as he could, up to Apollo's Lyre, where he held the boy dangling over the Paris skyline. He struggled and yelled, flailing his limbs like a puppet.

Erik brought his face very close to the boy's.

"Listen," he said, and then realized again that the boy would not hear anything. Was there any way to convey his threat? He glared at the boy as hard as he could, and then leaned him even further over the edge, until one shoe fell and crashed onto the pavement. The boy screamed.

"Let me go, let me go, monster! She's just a chorus girl, G-d!"

"Just a chorus girl!" Furious, Erik threw him to the ground of the roof, and the boy knocked his head against Apollo's stand and landed awkwardly on his arm. He cried out, and Erik thrust his face in the boy's once more, hoping that he had gotten the message across. The boy writhed in pain, twisting away from Erik's burning eyes. Erik kicked him once, hard, and then left him as quickly as possible, descending back down to that horrid little room.

The girl had taken up her skirts but had not put them on, had simply draped them across herself and was lying in the same place he had left her. She saw him immediately and shrank even further into the wall, if that was possible, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Erik sighed. He had no patience for crying girls, no experience talking to anyone in years… how could he silently comfort a raped orphan?

He could have left, he supposed, could have left satisfied that that wretched boy would never come near her again… but something stayed him. He had seen Alain approach her, had been glad even, and then gotten distracted by the seer, distracted by his own need for freedom… and had thus allowed such a travesty to come upon a young girl. _It was his fault. _Erik couldn't leave her alone now, not when he felt that he owed her everything he had, that protection for the rest of her life was least he could do for her, that he owed her his life for allowing such a thing to happen. It was too bad he had no life to forfeit.

He reached out a hand to touch her, and she flinched away, something he should have expected.

"Don't worry," he said, gently, knowing she wouldn't hear.

She whimpered, pulling the skirt tightly around her body, and he saw, with dismay, the blood staining the wood beneath her, shining darkly against her pale legs. An orphan, and a virgin no less, and he had stood by, permitted the last of her dignity to be stripped from her. He could never leave her alone, now. If any harm came to her again, he would willingly cross over… into the pits of Hell.

He stood, picked up her dress, and offered it to her. She stared at him with wide, frightened eyes, before reaching out a shaking hand to accept her clothes. He left, allowing her time to dress, and went in search of laudanum and a warm wash cloth. When he returned, he saw that she had slipped on her corset and her petticoat, which was stained with blood, but had not laced either, and was lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

"Mademoiselle," he said, and then instantly felt stupid. For one, she could not hear him, and two, the title sounded utterly ridiculous in such a setting. Instead, he showed her the dripping washcloth, waited until he saw some modicum of recognition in her eyes, and then began to ever so gently clean the blood from her legs. He only traveled so high with his cloth until he found it highly uncomfortable, and then he took her hand and closed it over the cloth, gesturing for her to finish. She stared at him.

"_Du hjälpte mig_," she whispered. _You helped me._ He swallowed. He had tried, was trying… if only he hadn't been so stupid, hadn't allowed that boy to come near her. He wished he could have truly helped her.

She took the cloth and it disappeared under her skirts, and he stood and turned away, facing the wall until he heard her drop the cloth on the floor. He poured out a bit of laudanum in a cup, swished it around a bit and estimated that it would be enough to put her to sleep without nightmares. He offered it to her, and she sniffed it before shakily taking it from his hands.

"_Operaspöke_," she said. _Opera Ghost. _He nodded. But the girl knew French, he had heard her speak it perfectly well just moments ago… he figured that the trauma had thrown her back into her native tongue. She drank the contents of the cup and then dropped it onto the floor, her muscles sagging. Where could he take her where she could sleep safely? He narrowed his eyes. He should have killed that wretched boy! Thrown him from the roof of the Opera. What had stopped him? A desire to keep his hands clean? He laughed darkly. No use worrying about that, not with a past like his!

He didn't want to take her back to the _corps_, not in this state, not with those cruel girls. But she needed to sleep, needed to heal. Without another thought he swept her up into his arms, ignoring her faint whimpers, and descended, down, into the darkness, into his former home.

He laid her gently on a bed, glad that he had happened to put it in, for no reason at all, so many years ago. She did not even open her eyes at the feeling of bed sheets being spread over her, but instead he saw kicking underneath the covers and soon she removed her bloody undergarments, her bare shoulder glowing palely in the dark as she turned from him and let her blond curls fall over her face. He bent to pick up her things and draped them over one arm, and then pulled the final blanket up over her shoulder, until all he could see was her hair and a bit of her slender nose.

"Sleep now, Christine." He said, and then turned out the lights and headed towards the lake.

* * *

Having something to do was a blessing, truly. Even if it was a dark duty, Erik felt satisfied just knowing that his existence finally served a purpose again. Indeed, he had not even sung a song in at least two years, had not touched his organ in months… nothing had inspired him, nothing had spoken to him, everything in his vision had turned gray, cloudy, unimportant… and now finally he felt needed. Finally he heard music in his head again. It was delightful, it was delicious.

Kneeling by the lake, Erik scrubbed her clothes the best he could, although he was soon seeing that he could never get the bloodstains out fully.

"Forget it," he said to himself. He heaved himself off the ground and instead stalked the upper world of the Opera in search of new undergarments for her, perhaps new clothes altogether. Maybe she would not ever want to wear a dress again which reminded her of what had happened. He wished he could leave this place, even to the next street!—to get her new clothes, but he could not. Instead he stole one piece each from a great number of girls, hoping that no one would connect the dots, and hoping even more that they fit. Instead of steal a dress, which may get noticed, he ransacked the storage closets for a dress from an old performance which did not look like a costume.

Finally satisfied, he returned to his old house on the lake, aware that morning was fast ending that that Christine would have rehearsal soon. Would anyone notice her absence? Should he wake her or should he leave her to heal? Erik was delighted to have nothing to think of but this girl. His own mind was a horrible place, a dark place, one he no longer wished to dwell in. He could completely focus his attention outside, on her… and forget, finally forget.

He heard noises from her room and softly slid inside, far enough away from her that she could see him approaching and deny him if she wished. He wanted to return as much dignity to her as possible.

She saw him, but said nothing. He knelt beside the bed. Her eyes were bloodshot and empty, and they raked his masked face.

"_Operaspöke,_" she said again. Then she cleared her throat, although her voice was little more than a groggy whisper. "Opera Ghost."

He simply watched her, his arm resting on the headboard, ready to assist her in anything she needed.

"How do you feel?" He asked, and then covered his mouth, not wanting to confuse her, by seeing his lips move and hearing no sound. He didn't want her to think she was going deaf, as well—

"I feel broken."

He clutched the side of her bed harder than he had intended, staring into her eyes, hardly registering her terrible pronouncement.

"You hear me?" he asked.

She cocked her head. "Should I not?"

He stared, not knowing what he was feeling, only acknowledging that this would make his job so much easier. How could she hear him? Could someone as fragile as this really be a seer? He could hardly believe it.

"No," he said, waving his hand. She watched it flutter through the air. "Forget I said it."

There was silence. He stood, uncomfortable with her constant staring. Damn women and their strange ways.

"I had meant—" he paused. "I meant how do you feel… physically?"

She blinked back tears and he cursed himself for being an insensitive fool, once again. She turned from him and curled up in on herself, and he reached over, careful not to touch her.

"I'm sorry I asked it," he said, trying to get her to look at him. "Please, I only want to help you."

She glanced up at him, at this. "Why? Why help me? I am only a chorus girl, and you… you are the Opera Ghost."

It was clear that she was still scared of him, although now he was confused. If she was a seer, what need had she to fear ghosts?

"I am not all that Jammes makes me out to be," he said, and her eyes widened at his knowledge of that conversation. "Although as you yourself asked, I have not harmed anyone in my Opera House, and I have no intention to." _Except for that wretched boy._

"You look as they say you do," she said, as if this was a confirmation of his evil.

"Yes, I wear an evening coat and I wear a black mask. But do you see knives hanging from my pockets? Streaks of blood on my gloves?" He held them up for her to see. She seemed slightly mollified by this, although still wary.

"Frankly I am surprised you were taken in by such silly stories," he said, not fully thinking his comment through. Damn, after not having spoken in so long, he had completely lost his filter.

"What do you mean?" She asked, sitting up and pulling the blankets with her. He remembered that she was still naked under the sheets.

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle. I had forgotten—it is truly inexcusable—please forgive me—"

He darted from the room to retrieve the garments he had piled on the floor of the Louis-Philippe room and set them on the bed beside her. She looked up at him.

"Thank you, Opera Ghost."

He inclined his head, and then backed away, bowing. "You are welcome to stay here as long as you wish. However I must inform you that it is nearing 11 o'clock in the morning and if you wish to get to rehearsal…"

She blanched, and he bowed his head even further. "I will see to it that your absence is well explained. Please remain here as long as you desire. If you must get up, do not leave the confines of the house, or you will get very lost. Excuse me, Mademoiselle."

"Wait—"

He stopped at the door. She stared at him in silence.

"Thank you," she said again, after a long minute. Erik bowed and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Now there was the little matter to attend to of explaining her absence to M. Gabriel. He penned a quick letter, explaining that the young Swedish Mademoiselle had taken ill and would be out for this day and the next. He dropped it onto M. Gabriel's chorus stand and then watched until he picked it up, read it, frowned, and then went to check up on the other girls. Erik wondered again, who Christine was and how she had found her way into the Opera. The thought had occurred to him that perhaps she was a stowaway, living in the Opera to avoid the streets, while possessing zero in the way of creative talent. Erik hovered over rehearsals, noting various points where he thought the company could improve. Half way through he noticed a dark figure with a red hat stalking about in the mezzanine, and he slipped away into the shadows of Box Five, hoping not to be bothered by the seer. He hadn't yet decided if he thought his debt to Christine lasted beyond the next few weeks, or if he would feel a constant need to protect her. That, and the seer spoke of his mask... Erik shuddered.

Below, Carlotta was up to her usual antics, and Erik leaned his head against the hollow pillar, wishing that anyone, anyone at all, even the screeching Giry girl, would take her place. Suddenly the lights in the box turned on brightly and he found himself face to face with Giry's mother, Mame Jules, the box keeper, broom in hand. Her mouth fell open, and he slid into the pillar as fast as he could. Her broom clattered to the floor.

"The ghost!" He heard her exclaim. He heard her shuffle to pick up her things. "The ghost! Here, in my very box!" She continued to mutter to herself, and he descended towards the cellars, where he nearly ran into a fireman who was unknowingly approaching the rat catcher, with his fiery head and wealth of scratching noise. The two met, and the fireman fell back a step, bumped into an old stage prop, screamed, and then ran the rest of the way up the stairs towards the stage, where he burst into the middle of rehearsal, panting hysterically. Erik watched from the catwalks, with something between amusement and derision.

"It is the ghost!" He shouted. Erik snorted. The fireman had run before he could hear the harmless intonation of his fiery guest: "I am the rat catcher! I am the rat catcher! Let me pass, with my rats!"

"M. Pampin!" All of the ballet rats gathered around him, his dark eyes bulging out of his pale face. "What happened?"

"I saw the ghost in the cellar! He came towards me, with a face full of fire!"

"But the ghost wears a black face on top of a skeleton," said little Jammes.

"I swear this face of fire came upon me, at the level of my eyes, filling the cellar with the most horrid of noises—I had to get out of there." He leaned against the curtain and wiped sweat from his forehead. It seemed that the ghost was getting a lot of face-time today.

M. Mercier was frowning, trying to call order to the stage again. Still amused, Erik left to check on Christine. True, there were many odd characters floating around the cellars of the Opera; the rat catcher, the trap door shutters, the door shutters, and the curios apparition of the shade in the felt hat, with whom Erik had never had contact. When he appeared on the steps of his home, he noticed that Christine's door was open. After making a cursory search of the surrounding rooms, he found her still sitting in bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Mademoiselle?" He asked, knocking softly on her door.

She turned. "Opera ghost," she said. Erik wondered if they would ever move past this stage of conversation.

He bowed his head slightly. "I have excused you from rehearsal for the next two days. How are you feeling?"

She blinked at him, and said nothing. He inwardly sighed. Why had he assumed that she would say anything, when most of her existence seemed to consist of screams and long stretches of empty silence?

He approached her, noticing with relief that she had partially clothed herself.

"Do you desire to bathe?"

She nodded.

"I shall prepare it for you."

"Ghost," she said. He looked up at her, and she pulled herself into a sitting position on the bed. "Why did you help me?"

Erik dropped his gaze from her, not wanting to remember that her suffering was his fault. "I do not allow violence under the roof of my Opera," he said after a second.

"You're not evil?" She asked, sounding entirely like a four year old.

In a different situation, Erik would have found the question funny, hilarious even. Of course he was evil. Of course he was.

"No, Mademoiselle. I am simply a ghost."

"I'm glad," she said.

Erik nodded, sensing that she still had more to say, but unsure if she had the strength the form sentences. She was too timid, too quiet. They stared at each other for a long while before she said words he never would have expected.

"Your wedding ring looks like my Papa's."

Erik felt himself quickly losing composure, and turned immediately to leave the room and draw her bath. That was a statement he never would have found funny, under any circumstance. His hands shook and he hoped she wouldn't notice his ghostly tears mingled with the bathwater.

* * *

The time was approaching when Erik thought he would have to bring her back to the dormitories. He didn't have adequate resources for her down here, didn't have enough clothes or food to keep her healthy, because he couldn't leave the grounds and could only steal so much. He only hesitated because he knew that the girls of the ballet were like hyenas, vicious and quick to laugh. But the truth was that Christine really needed to learn how to take care of herself. He vowed that he would follow her for one week and one week only, to make sure that she was all right, and then he would seek out the seer and finally know some peace.

"Ghost?" Christine's shy voice came from inside the Louis-Philippe room, where he had given her free rein to his library. He had been standing by the banks of the lake, watching the stillness of the water as it simmered in the eerie half light given off by his home. He slithered up behind her chair, staring into the fire, relishing in its warmth.

"Mademoiselle?"

She looked up at him from beneath her long pale eyelashes, and seemed to hesitate a second before speaking, something Erik was beginning to understand was quite common for her.

"I am afraid of going back there," she said, looking away from him and towards the floor. Damn, this girl was as spineless as a jellyfish. But Erik couldn't help feeling for her. He could tell that what he had witnessed was perhaps only the culmination of years of mistreatment from others. He wondered about the orphanage… She inspired a sense of tenderness in him that he had never thought possible in his rock cold heart. He imagined that this is what he would have felt towards a child, a child of his… a sweet, brown-haired little girl, with tanned skin and green eyes, like her mother… _Dammit Emily. In death can you still not leave me be?_ Erik hadn't thought this much of her in nearly twenty years.

He kicked out the tails of his jacket from behind him and kneeled down in front of Christine, trying to catch her eye.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "you needn't be afraid. I will protect you."

Christine looked at him, and then looked away again, quickly. Erik suppressed a sigh at her skittishness.

"But why me?" She whispered.

"Because… you are innocent." The words left his mouth before he had time to consider them, but they seemed as true as anything else. Not that he had spent much time protecting innocence when he was alive… but he had never, never hurt a woman. That much he could be proud of.

She still looked unsure, and Erik wondered what it was that ailed her. He would admit that he didn't strike the most trustworthy figure, but after all he had done for her, could she still not trust him?

He reached out a hand to brush a speck of dust from the arm of her chair and she recoiled quickly pulling her arms against her body and shielding her face with her hands. Erik sat back on his heels.

"Steady, child," he said, stunned. He hadn't seen anyone react to an outreached hand like this since he had been alive… since he had been the one pulling away in fear of incoming pain. "I am not going to hurt you."

She quivered against the chair, casting the fastest of glances at him from between her fingers.

"They all said that."

They stared at each other, Erik finding himself—and somewhere in his mind appreciating the irony—having nothing to say, after years of dreaming of conversation. Was this the universe's final, cruel joke? To show him a repeat of his wretched life, in slow motion, in the form of an innocent little girl? G-d, what was she running from? He looked into the fire, listening as her breathing slowed.

"Ghost?" She asked quietly, above the crackle of the flames.

"Erik," he said.

"What?"

He looked at her, trying to convey gentleness with his expression.

"Erik, my name. I was not christened 'Ghost.'"

A smiled almost grazed her features, before she quickly clamped down on her emotions. Erik frowned. _What a strange, poor creature._

"Erik," she said. "Scandinavian." He began to shake his head, but she continued. "Is that why you understood my Swedish?"

"You are mistaken. I am a Frenchman. I—" Erik paused. "I _was_ a Frenchman. I learned Swedish as hobby."

She nodded, staring at him with her huge, innocent blue eyes. "Have you ever been there? Sweden?"

"Yes. Once."

She leaned forward almost imperceptibly, unraveling her arms and resting them on the chair. "Wasn't it lovely? _Min Sverige_."

"Yes," he answered. "The countryside is breathtaking."

She smiled this time, a real smile, and it relieved Erik that she could actually look more alive than he if she tried. "I miss the north." And then her smile faded. "France is not like Sweden, not at all."

"No, I daresay it isn't." She shuddered, and retracted her arms from the chair, once again wrapping herself protectively. Erik wanted to take each arm and gently put them at her sides, teach her not to show weakness in front of others, teach her to stand with pride… "Paris is not a horrible place," was all he ended up saying. "You could find great happiness here, as you did there."

She shook her head, and refused to say anymore. He sighed, and lifted himself off his knee.

"Mademoiselle—"

"Christine."

He blinked at her. She shrugged, her face suddenly filling with a red flush.

"My name," she whispered. "Christine."

"Oh—of course." He shifted on one foot, her discomfort causing him to stand ill at ease. "Mademoiselle—Christine. Allow me to return you to the dormitories."

She cast him a forlorn glance, but he simply held out a gloved hand, which she refused, standing up unsteadily from her chair and presenting herself before him. She said nothing the entire journey to the surface, and when he placed her in her room, she simply said, "Thank you, Erik. For everything." And then she turned away from him.

* * *

If Christine sensed her ghostly shadow at all during that next week, she did not make it apparent. Erik followed her everywhere he found it appropriate, and was half shocked to discover that no other harm befell her. Many of the other girls still directed vicious jibes at her, especially Jammes, but Christine either failed to notice or didn't care. Her lifeless manner of living made him hurt, somewhere he didn't know he could still feel. He was glad to discover that the boy, the trap door shutter, had left the Opera company. When that week was over, Erik left Christine's side for the last time and felt satisfied with his existence, perhaps for the first time in his life. He had done a good thing. He had saved a young wilting flower from the evils of the world, at least for one week. He had seen that Persian stalking about near the manager's offices, and he figured it was time to finally confront him once again.

Erik found him, conveniently walking up the main staircase, and took care to follow him in the shadows before discreetly laying a hand upon his shoulder, when no one was in sight.

The Persian jumped, but Erik was impressed at how quickly he controlled himself.

"Monsieur Phantom. I see you have decided to come to your senses."

Erik regarded him. When had he allowed himself to become this, to become a person nearly as spineless as Christine? In life he never would have allowed someone to speak to him like this. Where was his pride, his anger, which had served him so well when he lived?

The Persian shrugged his shoulders and adjusted his waistcoat. "Shall we begin?"

Erik met his green eyes. "How do you suggest that?"

"You will need to tell me what I want to know."

Erik willed some of his age-old resentment to spring back to life, but all he felt was a minor irritation. He was dead, after all. What use was there in returning to his old ways? He sighed.

"What is it that you want?"

The Persian suggested that they remove themselves from the public arena, and Erik found himself, in a very different situation, again on the roof of the Opera, beneath Apollo's Lyre. M. Khan sat on the corner of the statue where Erik had not long ago thrown that boy.

"How long have you haunted this theatre?"

Erik stared off into the distance, into a Paris that he did not know.

"Twenty years, I think."

"Twenty." M. Khan nodded, half to himself. "You haven't been here long."

"Do you jest?" Erik felt a bit of flame pick up in his chest. If this man was going to ridicule what he'd been through, watching everyone die, watching _her _remarry, watching _her _die…

"No." M. Khan seemed a bit alarmed by Erik's change in mood, and Erik wondered if he could sense that, too. "But I have met ghosts who have wondered the earth longer than you have."

"How delightful for them." Erik fluffed out his cravat and bent one leg against a dip in the statue.

"I see you are not one for conversation."

Erik glared at him. "I thought you were here to cross me over, not to write a gossip column."

M. Khan held up his hands in retreat. "Forgive me, M. Phantom."

"Why do you call me that?" Erik asked.

"What?"

"'Phantom.'"

M. Khan shrugged. "That is what I heard someone say in the rafters yesterday. 'The Phantom of the Opera.'"

Erik felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. No doubt it had been little Giry or her cohorts. And yet what a brilliant title!

"I assume," M. Khan continued, "that you have a real name."

Erik looked at him, recalling how differently the last conversation in which he had given his name had been. "Erik. My name is Erik."

"Erik what?"

Erik blinked, now trying hard to control his anger, which had seemingly sprang from nowhere. "If I didn't give you a surname, _Monsieur, _it was because there was none to give."

M. Khan stood suddenly, backing away from Erik who had pushed himself off the statue and begun to close in on the Persian.

"Stay back, spirit." The Persian tripped over something in his path, and flailed his arms to get his balance. Erik stopped short, amused at the sight, and was surprised to find himself standing in a different position than he had been before.

"How did I…?"

The Persian watched him steadily. "You have not experienced this before?"

"What? What just happened?"

"You were angered. It triggered a dangerous reaction. In such a state, spirits can cause horrible things to happen, without even realizing."

Erik shook his head, clearly remembering holding that damn boy above the streets. "But I have been angry in the recent past. I remember it clearly."

"Angry because of something in your past, or your present?"

Erik furrowed his brow. The Persian took halting steps back towards him.

"Things connected to your past will cause reactions that you cannot control. Anger, or any other emotion, that is in response to something that happens in the present, will not cause these episodes."

Erik sighed. He didn't want to deal with that, not at all. All he wanted was to go away from this world, to be free.

"Why am I still here?" He asked.

"That is what we intend to discover. There must be something holding you back." He eyed the mask, and Erik turned away uncomfortably.

M. Khan cleared his throat. "Tell me, how old were you when you died?"

Erik blinked into the darkening night. "Twenty six."

"I see. And your death was… unnatural, I take it?"

Erik felt the anger rise up in his chest again, but he fought to keep it under control. "I was killed."

The Persian nodded. "I assume your death has something to do with your mask—"

An ugly, cold fist twisted in Erik's gut. "I apologize, M. Khan. I do not think I can continue this conversation any longer. Please excuse me."

"Wait—Erik!"

But Erik did not wait. He fled down, down through old corridors and past ballet rats who yelped at his sudden passage, taking no care to hide himself from anyone. He needed to be away, away, away. He burst in upon the empty theatre, and sat himself heavily in the complete darkness of Box Five, staring onto the stage, the only light glinting off of the single candle burning on the orchestra stand. He dropped his face in his hands, feeling that wretched black mask, the same mask he had worn for the entire year after Emily had left him, before he had died… and he wrenched it off, and stared at it, felt the air on his poor skin and closed his eyes tight to allow the tears to leak onto his cheeks. Would he ever be free of his face? He felt ghostly hands touch the broken skin of his face—not his hands, but Emily's. He remembered as she had traced each grotesquely protruding blood vessel, each scar, each pocket of sagging papery skin, remembered the expression on her face… horrible! Horrible! He couldn't think of that day any longer, couldn't bear to remember…

He pulled his knees up against his chest and unsuccessfully suppressed a sob, one that came deep from his chest. He hated his mask. He hated his face. He hated everything that had ever happened to him in his short, vile life. He hated that no one had cared when he died. He hated that he still wore his wedding ring, still wore that damned ring, so many years later, because he couldn't admit to himself that no one had ever loved him, couldn't admit to himself that he had died, and would move on, never ever knowing what it felt like to be loved… He wished the sweet music of a week ago would come back to him, but the music that had infected him so suddenly at the appearance of Christine in his home had quickly diffused, leaving him as lost as he had been for so many years. Lost, empty, dead…

**Okay, a chapter dos! Yay! It seemed to go on for quite some time, so I hope you didn't mind… I was having a hard time trying to figure out where to end it. I hope my characterization of both Erik and Christine is coming through sufficiently. Christine's character is not so easy to write. She's basically the most spineless character I've ever encountered. She's also incredibly innocent, and is obviously messed up, more so than usual. And Erik is… well, Erik. Ghostly Erik. Since I started re-reading the original novel (oh, let's say… for the eighth time? Nine? Maybe ten? Who's counting…) I've been trying to insert moments from the book, such as the fireman Pampin's reaction to the rat catcher, and other such moments.**

**I hope you guys enjoy, truly I do. Thank you for last chapter's reviews! =) They warm my heart. There was definitely something I meant to put in here while I was writing the above but I completely forget, so… just simply enjoy, and REVIEW, if possible! **

**Thank you!**

**~Ice Cliff**


	3. A Meeting in Box Five

**-I've super edited this chapter as well.- Again, for those who are confused, I've completely appended the old chapter four to the end of this chapter. I think it flows better this way, but let me know if you disagree!**

**Yay! Looky here, a new chapter! Yayyy I really like writing this story =). I hope you guys like it too! Oh, also I should probably mention, since in past experience people have asked about this: I choose to spell the word that refers to a supreme being "G-d," without the "o" in the middle. I know that this is a somewhat controversial spelling, but this is the way I choose to spell it. I hope it does not offend. PLEASE REVIEW! =)**

"There are more guests at table than the hosts

Invited; the illuminated hall

Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,

As silent as the pictures on the wall."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

The new managers had come to take a look around the Opera House, and Erik was more than happy to follow them as they lavishly complemented every last scene setting and costume. He thought that they seemed quite easy to control. If the seer hadn't moved him on by then, it certainly seemed like he wouldn't have a difficult time establishing his musical dominance once again. Truly, when not faced with the Persian, Erik couldn't quite think if he wanted to cross over. Ostensibly he did. He didn't want to be here anymore, didn't want to live his pitiful life for even a second longer, if he didn't have to. But at the same time, he feared terribly what was ahead of him. He had not been a saint while alive, and had precious few good deeds to his name. He didn't want to leave this world only to face a lifetime of agony in the next. Either way he looked at it, he was doomed, selected by the universe for eternal suffering.

After they left, Erik floated dejectedly from room to room, feeling as though he could accurately take on all stereotypes of a ghost: rattle the chains that held the counterweights of the chandelier, let out long, deep moans of agony… he suddenly wished the horses in the stables weren't so scared of ghosts… he wouldn't mind spending some time with those luxurious, regal animals. Animals never judged… he had a way with animals. They understood each other. He had often thought of adopting a pet, but he later realized how truly ridiculous it would be: rats for one did not make good pets, and they were truly the only free animals running about in the Opera House, and second he would have nowhere to keep it, nothing to feed it. But it still made him sad, every once in a while. He came upon rehearsals, not feeling at all like taking notes, but rather hoping that maybe a miracle would happen and something would actually sound pleasing to his ears. He was glad, at least, that Carlotta was not rehearsing at the moment.

They were practicing a few lines from Gounod's _Romeo and Juliet_, and Erik appreciated that the ballet rats seemed to be somewhat together on this dance, and it nearly looked lovely. It wasn't until at least twenty minutes that Erik even noticed that Christine was there, tucked in the back of the chorus, her eyes darting about the theatre as if searching an escape. Why was she so damn lifeless, no more noticeable than a twig in the middle of a forest? He watched her moved among the other chorus girls and when rehearsal ended he couldn't help but feel a little frustrated with her. It was painful, simply painful, to watch this young girl destroy herself. He wanted to wring her shoulders, speak sense to her, breathe _life_ into her. He followed her back to the dormitories, averting his eyes from the changing ladies and focusing on a spot on the ceiling above him.

He heard the girls shuffling about below, this one giggling out something with that one. Christine didn't say anything, as he could have predicted. Someone turned the light low, and Erik glanced down, relieved to see all of the girls dressed and some slipping into bed while others gathered around the lingering lamp to gossip. Christine sat apart from the group, not going to sleep but apparently mending a rip in her costume, her blond hair tied back in a simple black ribbon. From his vantage point, she looked no more than a small child, perhaps six or seven years of age. He wondered how much could be owed to her small frame and plain dress and how much to her wide-eyed blue stare.

"—but don't let her see you staring at her." There was a round of hushed giggles from the girls gathered below him, and Erik watched as some of them stole furtive glances at Christine. He sighed. He wondered if she truly didn't notice or was only pretending not to notice.

He bowed his head to better hear their conversation.

"Watch this," Jammes was saying. And she leaned back on her chair and spoke plainly, so most of the room could hear her. She received irritated groans from some of the girls who had already fallen asleep.

"I heard the managers talking today," she said. "And they said that the Opera Ghost has made a mess of the whole gala."

At this Christine picked up her head. Her fingers were still working at the needle, but she was watching Jammes, who smirked, having gotten the attention of the girl she meant to scare. Erik wondered how she would react, now that she knew him.

"Oh Jammes," replied one of the girls who was brushing out her hair. "When did you hear the managers talking? You make up too many things."

"No I don't." She pouted, glancing furtively at Christine. "We all know that the ghost has been very upset recently."

"Why?" All of the girls turned to look at Christine, whose stitching continued at a snail's pace.

"Why, because he doesn't want them to play _Romeo and Juliet_! Because that is what they played when he died." Several girls tittered, and Erik could only assume that Jammes had shared what she had told Christine, no doubt to mock her further. "Yes, and—and he has threatened to kill anyone who sings in that scene!"

"I don't think he'll hurt anyone." Christine's voice was no more than a soft whisper, but the entire dormitory fell into silence. She seemed embarrassed by the attention, and chose to look at the floor instead, working faster at her costume.

"What makes you say that?" asked little Giry. She inched slightly closer to Christine.

Christine shrugged. Erik felt an overwhelming sense of tenderness for her defense of him. No one had done anything kind for him in too many years to count.

"He's a kind ghost," she said.

Jammes snorted. "Because you would know, Christine. I'm sure the ghost takes a lot of interest in you; you dance like a cow and you sing like a crock!"

Christine's face went pale as some of the girls began to laugh, and in the same second she gasped and dropped her needle to the floor, a prick of blood beginning to stain the sleeve of her dressing gown. She stood quickly and fled the room and Erik followed her to the washroom, where she ran cold water over the place where she had pricked her thumb with her needle, desperately wiping tears away from her face. _Poor Christine…_

"I do not sing like a crock," Christine said to herself in the mirror. Erik paused, watching this interaction with interest. Did she sing? He had never heard her make any sounds during rehearsal. From where came this defense of her talent? Why this and not the jab Jammes had made at her dancing? "I do not sing like a crock." And then her face crumpled and she burst into horrible sobs, sinking down onto the floor and pulling her long hair over her face.

"Papa, papa, papa." And that was all she said, over and over and over again, through her tears. He wondered how long she had been in the orphanage, how old she had been when her father had died, what had happened to her mother… what had happened to reduce her to this, this dead man walking.

Without turning the idea over in his mind, Erik opened his mouth and began to sing, incredibly softly. For a moment he saw nothing, only heard the wondrous sound of _his own voice_, his own voice finally singing again, finally connected with the music in his soul, finally home… and then his vision returned and he saw that she had stopped crying and had lifted her head, unshed tears standing in her eyes, her face flushed and glistening.

"_Rida, rida ranka_," he breathed, "_hästen heter Blanka_." It was the only song he knew in Swedish, a silly children's rhyme he had learned from a beggar in front of a tavern.

Christine closed her eyes, enraptured.

"_Liten riddare så rar, ännu inga sporrar har_."

"_När han dem har vunnit_," she said in a whisper, joining him. He wondered why she spoke, and didn't sing, but in that moment he didn't care. All that mattered was that someone, for once in his life, was entwining her voice with his.

"_Barndomsro,_" they said together,_ "försvunnit_."

The first real smile he had ever seen graced her features. "Thank you, _vän_ Erik," she said.

_Friend. _She had called him her friend. Had he ever had a friend in his life? It was extraordinary. He looked down upon her, to thank her maybe, to say something encouraging, but suddenly found that he could say nothing, because her big blue eyes were staring up at him, even though she could not see him, and after a minute she got up and left, her eyes completely dry, and all he could think was how he could not bear to ever have those eyes look upon his unmasked face. Friend she may be, but she could never know him, not truly. And no one ever would. Erik turned from the empty washroom and left to stare at the stars.

* * *

Erik sat on the tip of Apollo's Lyre and stared into the stars until they became hidden behind the blue blanket of day, and then when they came out again, for days on end, not realizing the passage of time. He had learned that as a ghost, with no need to sleep or eat, he could easily let months pass with no recognition of them, and to him it felt as only a few minutes. If anyone had come upon the roof in that time when he was immovable and oblivious to the world, all they might have seen was a dark misty figure on the wing of the statue, and they would have decided that it was a trick of the light. The sun went down an innumerable amount of days later and Erik suddenly felt present within himself again, and retreated back into the theatre. Looking at the stars always made him happy, in a way that nothing else could. Stars were a beauty that no one could ever taint, not even him.

The upper attic of the theatre was bathed in the warm yellow light of the sunset, and Erik passed quickly by a kissing couple who completely failed to notice him and a few stray stage hands. He didn't know what he was looking for, but hoped it would pop up before him. To someone who had always masked his pain by throwing himself into his work, being a ghost was unendingly frustrating; countless days stretched before him in which there was no foreseeable purpose for his continued existence. He jumped down from a catwalk and stood upon the empty stage, looking out onto an audience only present in his mind, and imagined what it would have felt like to be that famous singer that Jammes had made him out to be. Would Paris have loved him, worshipped him? Would he have had ladies at his arm every night? He sank, slowly, onto the edge of the stage, his legs hanging over the side, and then leaned down entirely, staring up at the intricate workings of the ceiling that he had convinced Garnier to put in. He wished he could be one of those golden angels reaching out to one another.

"Erik?" A timid voice called out to him from the corner of the stage and he jumped up, embarrassed to have been found in such a position of weakness. He saw Christine's shy figure peering out at him from behind a curtain in Box Five. He was immediately before her, and she took a quick step back, apparently not used to the movements of ghosts, and he again wondered how a seer like herself could be so afraid of everything that made him a spirit.

He looked down at her. She was already wearing her dressing gown, and this made him frown.

"What are you doing out here at night? You shouldn't wander about your Opera by yourself…" he shuddered to think whose clutches she might have fallen into this time.

A smile nearly graced her features. "I was looking for you."

He blinked, and she seemed uncomfortable with his silence. She had been looking for him? No one in their right mind _looked _for death. She must have been much more in need of companionship than Erik had at first suspected. She averted her eyes and sat in the seat closest to her, fisting her hands in her gown. "Jammes told me that you haunt this Box, because it is closest to the stage…"

Haunt Box Five indeed… as if a ghost had nothing better to do than sit in a box and listen to Carlotta sing!

"I have no box, Mademoiselle," he said, kneeling down on one knee before her and beckoning for her to look at him. "If you wish to find me all you need do is call for me, and I will hear you."

She nodded, but continued to play with her hands. Erik had the awful urge to grab her hands and make it stop, but he couldn't bring himself to touch her. It didn't seem appropriate.

"Why were you looking for me?" He asked. She met his eyes and then stood and turned away from him, looking out onto the stage.

"No one here likes me very much," she said. "They are all very mean to me."

Erik lifted himself off his knee and went to stand beside her, following her gaze onto the empty theatre and hanging red curtains.

"The world is not a very nice place," he said.

"I know."

They stood in silence for a time before Christine timidly turned to look up at him. He was made aware instantly of how petite she was.

"You are kind to me."

He nodded.

"But I haven't been able to find you in days," she said. He considered this. How long had she been looking for him? It just wasn't safe for someone like her to be wandering the Opera at night.

"I have nothing to occupy my time, Christine." He spread his hands in an expansive gesture. "I have eternity before me. As I have said, if you wish my presence, you just need to call."

"I have never been friends with a ghost before," she said, and it made her smile.

"Indeed? And yet you hear me…"

"What?" Her large blue eyes stared up at him, and he furrowed his brow. Truly, was she not aware that she was a seer? It did not seem possible that she had never seen another ghost in her life, unless she had been completely sequestered in an unhaunted orphanage for most of her life, unaware of her gift…

"Tell me, Christine. How did you come to be at the Opera?"

But this seemed to be the wrong question, for she tensed up and took to pulling at the laces on her gown.

"I have a patron," she said quietly. _Ah, of course. _He could have guessed, although with her history as an orphan the likelihood of her being tied to one of those noblemen had seemed slim…

"Yes?" He asked. "The Duke of Gramont, perhaps? The Countess de Cherbourg? Or the Count de Chagny?"

"No, no," she shook her head. "My benefactress, Madame Valerius—what did you say?"

"What?"

"Before, you said… who was it you mentioned?"

"The Countess de Cherboug?" he asked. She shook her head. "Count Philippe de Chagny?"

"de Chagny," she said, recognition in her voice.

"You know him?" He asked, not understanding her line of thinking.

"I—I thought… well, it doesn't matter, now, even if I did."

Erik tried to hold in his frustration. Having a conversation with her was like trying to convince Garnier not to put in that blasted chandelier.

"So, this Madame Valerius," he said, trying to get her back on track. "She brought you to the Opera."

Christine rolled her shoulders back, trying to relieve tension. "She convinced the management to take me in. I think she paid them a lot of money, because I didn't audition."

Didn't audition? Maybe the girl really did dance like a cow and sing like a crock. If so he hoped she continued to keep her mouth shut during performances.

"Then why did she bring you here, and not set you up as a governess perhaps?

"I asked her to put me in the Opera House. My father—" She stopped short. "Music has always been important to me."

He couldn't understand her, not at all. She had no life, no will to be anything more than a mouse, no artistic ability that he could see, and yet she had begged to live in the Opera House, with girls who treated her no better than a servant? He could not see how music fit into her life, but at least could sympathize with the sentiment.

"Music has also been important to me," he said. It was the understatement of his life, so it seemed. He lifted his gloved hand and gestured towards the empty seats of the theatre. "My greatest achievement, the Palais Garnier. My offering before the feet of the Muse."

She looked at him with wide eyes. "You—? You built the Opera House? But I thought—Charles Garnier?"

Erik nodded. "We were partners. I… we had an arrangement in which my name was kept out of the public eye."

She looked around the theatre, seemingly taken in things she had never seen before. "It's so beautiful," she whispered. "I can't imagine how man's mind can be so expansive as to create something so magnificent… and yet be so very _cruel_."

It reminded him painfully of all the anger he had felt at humanity, how eventually he wanted to kill every stray person he met on the street, just because they existed in a realm where he could not…

"Some people will do everything they can to keep a flower from the sunlight, Christine."

"It's horrible." She shuddered, and he knew she was reliving something from her past, a past in which he was very interested, at this point.

"Is that Christine?" They both turned, and little Giry, Jammes, and several other girls were standing in a cluster behind a column in Box Five, Jammes' hand held tightly by a young man Erik recognized from the stables. Her eyes fixated on his black mask, and he knew that in an instant she was about to start screaming about the Opera Ghost. He quickly disintegrated into the floor.

"Was that the Opera Ghost?" Asked little Giry in a tiny frightened voice.

"Look at what she's wearing," one girl whispered above him. "She looks like—" Erik cringed at this newest insinuation, which Jammes quickly jumped on.

"Well, Christine. You are the last one any of us expected to become the ghost's whore!"

Erik closed his eyes, wanting to come to her rescue but knowing that it would only worsen her situation. He only wished that he hadn't caused her this trouble at all. _Poor Christine._ It was all he could think. _Poor, poor Christine._

But he did not expect to hear Christine's angry footsteps quickly dragging across the Box towards the girls.

"What would you know about it?" She spat. And he heard her nearly run away from them. He saw her safely to her room, but said nothing, afraid of what she might think of seeing him now… He knew that meeting a young girl in her nightgown in the middle of a deserted theatre was less than proper, but what did he care? He was dead! But for her sake… he decided to be extra careful not to let her see him again, and especially not to let anyone see him near her.

* * *

There was about one month left before the gala was scheduled to happen, and Erik spent his time attending rehearsals, tweaking the performances when he could, and avoiding Christine. He knew that she looked for him, because he could see her eyes always darting towards Box Five, but she never called for him, so he figured that she must be getting along okay. The girl would need to learn how to take care of herself eventually. After a lengthy rehearsal in which Carlotta relentlessly barraged his ears, Erik sought out the Persian, who had also attended the rehearsal.

"I see the diva's screeches have driven you to the afterlife."

Erik met the Persian's eyes for a moment, shocked at his comment, before bursting out laughing in spite of himself.

The Persian smiled. "Now, M. Erik, I hope we can continue our discussion from before."

"Yes, I daresay…" Erik was still chuckling, but managed to get himself under control as he and the seer made their way towards an empty dressing room.

Once they were seated, M. Khan folded one knee upon another and leaned back in his chair.

"You told me you were killed at the age of twenty six. May I ask what your employment was before this?"

"I did many things. Foremost, I was involved in the construction of the Opera House."

"I see. This may explain why you haunt it."

"That, and I was killed here."

"I see."

Erik stood, his nerve endings all frayed, not wanting to relive his miserable past. He paced, trying to relieve his tension.

"Your wife—"

Erik stopped short and gave him a wild-eyed look, and the Persian shrugged.

"You wear a wedding ring…"

Curse the damn ring! He had worn a wedding ring for twenty years as a ghost; why did everyone think that now was a great time to bring it up?

"What of her?" He asked tiredly.

"Was she alive at the time of your death?"

"Yes," Erik said, not wishing to recall the last things she had said to him. "We had separated, at that point."

"Oh. Is she… still alive?"

"No, no, she died. Years ago…" Erik clenched his hands together and willed himself to retain control

"I understand that these things are difficult for you, Erik. I see that you are a troubled spirit. But this is the only way you can cross over. We must discover what unfinished business you have. We must discover what is keeping you here, so that you can leave."

"I have no unfinished business on this earth. It is simply that the universe hates me!"

"You have no relatives, no work left undone, no message to be passed on?"

"Relatives? Ha! They are all dead. There is no one here who knows me, and if they do, they certainly want no message from me!"

The Persian shook his head. "There must be something anchoring you here. No spirit is earth bound forever. There is that young chorus girl you shadow. What is your connection with her?"

"What?" Erik looked at him, incredulous.

"I have seen you around that little blond girl. Is she related to you?"

"You have been following me!" Erik accused.

The Persian stood up, matching Erik in his anger. "I am trying to help you, spirit!"

Erik folded his arms. "I have no relation to her. I have no association with her to speak of. I assisted her one night when she was in trouble. She is a seer as well."

The Persian's eyebrows went up. "She is… a seer, you say?"

"Yes." Erik said, frustrated. "Well, she can hear me, so how else do you explain that?"

M. Khan furrowed his brow. "That's… very interesting."

"Why? Why is that interesting?" Erik glared at him.

"No," the Persian said after a second. "It is no matter. If you say you have no relation to her, then we must move on. Did you have any financial commitments which you could not keep before you died?"

"No. No, I didn't. This is tiresome. I wish to leave now." Erik swept himself across the room before the Persian had the time to speak. He regretted that even in death he could not shake the sometimes childish petulance of his speech, but he did find the man somewhat intolerable. Financial engagements, relatives! Clearly he knew nothing of Erik's life, nothing of what he had suffered. It made him uncomfortable that the Persian had seen him following Christine, but he thought nothing of it, in the end. He didn't think that M. Khan seemed like the type of man to try to hurt her.

Erik once again found himself floating down hallways with no purpose. He hated that, more than anything. He hated that he had nothing to interest him, that twenty years had gone by and they may as well have been five hundred. All he wanted to do was rest, to sleep… to finish his Opera, his Don Juan, which he had been composing on the night he was murdered…

He flit past Jammes and her boy in a very compromising position, and without thinking twice about it stomped very loudly on the floor, causing her to shriek, before he quickly made his way through a different corridor. He chuckled to himself, glad that he could still scare little ballet rats when he wanted to. He saw that a light was on in one of the ballet studios, and he wondered if it was little Giry. He had seen her practicing there, late at night, several times. He knew that she cared much more about dancing than any of the other girls, and had been the one behind her promotion to the front of the line. He heard stilted piano music, and figured that Giry was trying to give herself the first few chords of the number before she began. He stood in the doorway, enshrouded in the shadows, and in that same second a little blond head picked itself up and began to sing.

Erik felt a force rush through him like the push of the bullet that had killed him, punching his gut and causing him to clutch onto the doorpost for strength. _G-d, the sound! _He heard waves crashing against his ears, felt the incredible charge of electricity through all of his veins. _The sound, the sound…_ He fell to his knees, his eyes fixated on her wide open mouth as she sang Juliet's lines from the balcony scene. Tears fell from his eyes, and he could hear nothing besides for her clear, sweet music. He wanted to sob, wanted to scream. He tore at his hair, his hands falling to the ground, and he clutched at the wood, seeing extraordinary light play before his eyes, dancing and convalescing and entwining in the beautiful, crystal sound of her voice. His thoughts were a jumble, completely unintelligible, and soon the music was over, and he stared at her, seeing her through the haze of his misty eyes, before tearing down through the Opera, down, down, down, down to his cellar, to his house on the lake, where his Organ lay, untouched.

At last, there was music.

** And finis! I like this chapter sort of. I'm not totally sure. I actually really like this Christine, for some reason. I still wish to get Erik out of his ooc-ness, but that will come in time… I hope you guys are enjoying the story. Really. Truly. I feed off of your pleasure. You don't even know how happy it makes me. And in the interest of encouraging me to continue with this and easing my soul, PLEASE PLEASE take a second to review! PLEASE! I wither without reviews. Tell me what you think!**

**I'm super super curious... do you like the characters? The plot? Are the chapters getting repetitive? Are there things you want explained, other things you want taken away? I'm feeling like I'm not giving enough time to Erik's emotions and thoughts but I can't tell... what do you think?**

**Okay, I really hope you guys like what is going on! PLEASE REVIEW! Please let me know what you are thinking about everything, because I really really want to know! I can't decide if I like my writing style in this story… I don't think I do. It's really different from how I usually write and seems sort of sparse. But you know what would be awesome… if you guys told me what **_**you**_** thought!**

**Please! It's just a little button! See it? See? It's down there. Right there. Look how pretty and inviting it is!**

**I'm a little sad because not that many people seem to be reading/reviewing... if you like it, please please review! Even just to say something really quickly! I thought it was a fun story, but... in any case thank you so, so very much to TheBlackSister, who has been faithfully reviewing each chapter! You are keeping me going! =) You're the coolest.**

**~Ice Cliff**


	4. Schemes for a Triumph

**-Editing Change! "But I have already read chapter four!" You say.-**

**-Well, things have changed! This is a completely new chapter, one you have never seen before! I appended the old chapter four to the end of three, and this is something new. But no events in the story have changed, since all I did was just move stuff around. Thanks for understanding!-**

**Helloooooooooo! Hi! So nice to see you again/meet you through the internet : ). Delighted am I to bring you this next chapter! I hope you love it, truly. In fact, I hope you love it enough to continue reading… and also to review! Yayyy for the plot finally thickening. Sorry to take so long to get into the meat of the story!**

"The stranger at my fireside cannot see

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;

He but perceives what is; while unto me

All that has been is visible and clear."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

Time was real again, in the way it had been when he had been alive. He could still spend days unaware of their length, but now it was because he was fully immersed again in his music, and not because he was a dead ghost staring up at the stars. Things were alive now. Things were teeming in his brain; ideas, art, music… He played the organ until his fingers hurt, and then picked up his violin and played until he broke his bow. He fell to the floor, holding his violin in one hand, feeling the plush carpet of the Louis-Philippe room, sated to the core with music, feeling that he had finally, _finally_ come home. _Dear, sweet music…_

It wasn't until several days later that he remembered what had spurred him to play again, and in remembering he felt another jolt through his core, like lightning. He remembered the soft caress of her voice as it rose up into the heavens, where surely angels must have wept. Taking care to avoid the observing glance of the Persian, he waited until he found Christine alone in a dressing room, practicing her dancing in front of a mirror. He appeared behind her suddenly and she gasped, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

"Erik!" He turned to him, her eyes bright. "I haven't seen you in so very long."

He nodded, unable to speak, needing to hear her sing again. He approached her.

"I've been trying to practice my dancing, but I'm afraid it is hopeless. None of the other girls will help me—"

"You sing," he said. His voice was low, rough.

She blinked, and then blushed. "I don't—"

"I heard you sing," he said again. "I heard you, in the ballet studio."

She simply stood there, looking at him. Never had he had more of an urge to throttle her.

"You must sing again," he said tightly.

She began to shake her head, but he took another step towards her.

"You cannot live in my house of music and not pay your due homage."

She took a step away from him. "I don't understand—"

"You must sing!" He tried to rein in his emotion but it was impossible. How dare she stand before him, weak, silent, when she had music coiled tightly inside of her, ready to burst? Tears began to fall from her eyes.

"Please don't shout at me," she whispered, falling against the mirror and pulling in her arms.

Erik pressed his gloved hands together and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. When he opened them, he tried to give her the most encouraging look possible.

"Christine," he began. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, quivering against the mirror. "Your voice is a gift from heaven. You could bring Paris to its knees."

"Heaven?" She asked. He frowned. Had she missed his point entirely? "Heaven?" She said again. "Father said… the Angel of Music lives in heaven."

"The Angel of Music?" He asked.

"Yes. The Angel of Music comes to sing to those who are worthy. He grants them otherworldly music, and they rise to greatness."

He jumped at this. "Do you wish to rise to greatness, Christine?"

She shook her head, not knowing what to do with her hands. She turned from him and stared into the mirror. "I am not worthy of greatness. I can never be great."

He stood behind her, letting his hands rest ever so gently on her shoulders. "Look, Christine. Look at yourself. You will one day be the greatest singer who ever lived."

Tears began to fall from her eyes. "I can't do it. I'm weak. I'm scrawny and stupid and useless and—"

"Christine!" He spun her around and held her this time, hard. "Who told you these things?"

"Everyone. Everyone for my entire life. I'm dirty, Erik. I'm dirty and ugly and everyone knows it."

He placed one finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Listen to me, Christine. You will not say these things about yourself under my roof. The world is a dirty place. You are not dirty. They know that, and they're jealous. They want to make you like them. Don't let them in, Christine. Don't let them do it."

She began to sob. "How would you know? You don't know anything about me."

"I know that you are better than Jammes and her tricks. I know you are made for something greater."

In her eyes he could clearly see that she didn't believe him, but it didn't matter anymore.

"I want to teach you, Christine," he said. "I want to make you a star. Please, don't deny me this. Don't deny _yourself._"

She looked at him timidly, but she nodded her head.

"Good," he said. "Good."

Their system worked well; Erik met her each night in the washroom, and then they descended together to his home, where sheets of newly written music were strewn all over the floor. Christine commented on it the first time she was there, but said nothing further. He worked her hard, as hard as he could without making her cry, and found incredible pleasure in her continued improvement. Her voice was a balm to his soul, it was like his own child, his own legacy on earth… he thought of little more than its clear and beautiful sound. He began to avoid the Persian completely. He had no need to move on any more, no desire whatsoever to cross over, not when he had her music. He existed in a continuous dream, drunk on her voice.

One night he came to retrieve her and found her in tears. He had been watching her from the catwalks since they began their lessons, and found to his dismay that she had not taken to heart a single encouraging word he had said to her. She continued to bend to Jammes' cruel insults and remained in the back of the chorus, fumbling instead of dancing and hardly singing.

"Christine, what's wrong?" He pulled her up from the ground by her upper arms. She wiped wayward tears from her cheeks but couldn't speak over her sobs. He brought her down to the house on the lake and seated her in a couch before the fire, bringing her a warm cup of tea and a touch of honey.

He knelt beside her. "What is it, child?"

"Jammes!" was all she said, and continued to sob into her arm. He sighed. He had never been someone's teacher before, but found that he wasn't all that terrible at it… he didn't realize he would also have to be her father.

"What happened?"

Christine shook her head, and after a moment, Erik rose to find his violin. He returned and sat beside her chair. Looking into the fire, he began to play a soft melody he had once heard in Russia, twisting and spinning it and making it his own.

"Oh," Christine said. She leaned over the side of her chair to look at him, and one of her tears dripped onto his mask. He continued to play. "Oh."

She slipped down onto the rug and stared at him as if entranced. Eventually he completed the melody and set down his violin. She looked starry-eyed.

"My father played the violin," she said. Her voice sounded far away. "Papa used to play the violin. He played all the time."

He nodded, sensing that her attachment to her late father bordered on obsessive.

"Will you tell me what happened tonight, Christine?"

She dropped her hands in her lap, blushing. "I wanted to go out after rehearsal today, to buy a candle for my father because the chapel is all out of candles, but I walked past Jammes in the foyer and she tripped me, and I fell and I tore my dress! You're going to think I'm silly, but that was the only good gown I had. I only have one other dress and it is drab and plain and tattered at the bottom, and Madame Valerius won't return any of my letters, as she is in Italy. I don't have any money to buy a new dress, none at all, and—"

By G-d, the girl could rant. "Christine," he said softly. "Do not worry. I will take care of you." He didn't know exactly how he was going to take care of her. He certainly didn't have any money to his name—he was a ghost! But his promise seemed to calm her down.

"Shall we sing?" He asked. He led her to the organ, and as she began her scales he thought about what avenue he could possibly have of making money while tethered to the grounds of the Opera House. Suddenly he had the most outrageous idea.

* * *

"It's unthinkable!" Poligny slammed his fist on the table, causing Debienne to jump back a bit. "What is this nonsense?" He threw the letter in its envelope across the room, where it hit the wall and fluttered to the floor. Erik watched from above with amusement.

Debienne, whom Erik had always known to be slightly more superstitious, trembled. "Bertrand," he said haltingly. "The whole company knows of the ghost. He's real—"

"Real? I had no problem believing he was real until he started demanding money! What need has a ghost for money? And twenty thousand francs a month, no less!"

"Calm down, Bertrand."

"Don't tell me to calm down," Poligny snapped. "Tell me to calm down when my Opera House stops playing tricks on me. G-d, I can't wait to be free of this place!"

"The note said—"

"I don't care what the note said!" Poligny dropped into his chair and began hastily going through paperwork.

"But, he said if we didn't obey—"

"Enough, Emile. I will hear no more of this ghost. This is no doubt a trick of one of the stage hands."

Debienne wrung his hands nervously and looked all around the room, as if expected the ghost to drop down from the ceiling. _Who am I to deny him? _Erik thought.

He appeared immediately before Debienne, his golden eyes glowing, and the poor manager let out a shout so magnificent it drove Poligny to cut himself with his letter opener and their concierge to come running into the room.

Erik chuckled, nestling himself once again in the shadows above the office.

"What happened sir?" Gasped the young man.

"What is it, man?" Poligny stood, murder in his eyes.

"The—the ghost. He was here!" Debienne's face was ashen.

Poligny rolled his eyes and shooed the concierge from the room. When the door shut, he placed his hands on Debienne's shoulders.

"Listen, Emile. You are imagining things. The ghost was not in this room. Go to the theatre and watch the rehearsals. It will calm your nerves."

Debienne nodded breathlessly and Poligny showed him out of the room, shaking his head in irritation. Erik followed Debienne from several steps behind, a wicked smile pulling at the corners of his lips. _Calm your nerves indeed, M. Manager. _He slipped up into the catwalks and waited until Debienne had seated himself behind the orchestra. First, it was little things. He stole a prop from a ballerina who was pushed onto stage without it. Then he struck a horrible chord on the piano that made the entire company jump. Debienne took a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe his forehead. The man at the piano apologized profusely, not understanding how he had made the sound. Erik stealthily stole a knife from one of the stage hands and sliced one of the supports for the backdrop, which tilted sideways and fell heavily to the stage, making many of the ballerinas shriek. They stopped in the middle of their dancing, clustering together in a frightened circle. Christine stood alone in the back, watching the events unfold with wary eyes.

"The ghost!" One of the singers said. "It must be the ghost."

Erik chuckled, and Debienne went pale. He pulled the curtains on all of the boxes and plucked one string on each of the violins as he passed the orchestra, circling around to appear on stage, causing everyone on stage to cower and run for the back. Only Christine remained, standing on stage with her hands at her sides, watching him. But Erik only had eyes for Debienne, who had stood from his seat and was trembling terribly. Erik bowed to the manager from the center of the stage, his golden eyes glowing. Then he was standing directly in front of the man, who fell back onto his seat, throwing his arms up. Erik smiled a deathly smile, pressing his face as close to the manager's as possible, before disappearing beneath the stage, having full confidence that this little show would bring him his salary.

* * *

Just to be sure of his pay, Erik dropped a separate letter to Poligny, assuring him that he knew all about his little political "arrangements" and that he had no qualms about exposing them to the press. This, coupled with Erik's performance before Debienne, ensured that a thin white envelope stuffed with twenty thousand francs appeared on the shelf of Box Five the next day. After checking the contents, Erik smirked and secured the envelope in his pocket. Fools, these managers were! He intended to enter their office later that night to write this arrangement into the lease, so that the new managers would continue his pay. He wondered how he was going to explain the money to Christine, and then wondered if it mattered. There was no reason why she should assume that just because he was a ghost he had no money left over from when he was alive. The night before, he recalled, she had been extremely reticent, but he hadn't pressed it, too absorbed was he in his little intrigue.

Tonight he was determined to find out what was bothering her.

When he picked her up she didn't smile at him, simply nodded and waited to begin the descent. When they got to the house on the lake she started immediately for the music room, but he pulled her into the kitchen instead.

"Sit," he said. She complied, staring at the tabletop, her mouth pulled into a frown. He gave her the usual cup of tea, and she sipped it, but sparingly.

He sat across from her. "What ails you, Christine?"

"What do you mean?" She looked at him innocently.

"I can tell that something is upsetting you. Yesterday your voice was not at your best."

She shrugged and he willed himself to stay under control. "Please tell me what is wrong," he said.

She put down her cup of tea, apparently thinking very hard about something.

"I was at rehearsal yesterday," she said finally. "You were there too. You were… you were making things go wrong."

He sighed. How did anyone deal with the incredible mood swings of young ladies? He could hardly bear it.

"I've never seen you do anything not nice," she said. She took a giant sip of her tea and didn't look at him.

"I wasn't—Christine—" he laced his fingers together and laid them gently on the table. "Don't you trust me?"

Her eyes widened and she stared into her cup. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't trust anybody."

He reached a hand across the table and just barely grazed her fingertips. "You have to trust me. Everything I do is for the good of the Opera. I've been here for a long time. Sometimes the managers don't know what is good for music. I do." It was a blatant omission of the truth, but he felt more comfortable with it than anything else.

"I want to sing, Erik." There were unshed tears in her eyes, but she left the table and stood rigidly by the piano. He quickly slid himself onto the piano bench.

"Scales, then, Christine." He began to warm her up and she put more emotion into simple scales than he had ever heard Carlotta put into the prison scene of Faust. He thrust sheet music at her, hoping not to lose this prize moment of passion. She was alive again, and her voice—it was more than any human could hear and live!

"_Voici la fin de la semaine: qui veut m'aimer? Je l'aimerai! Qui veut mon âme? Elle est à prendre! Vous arrivez au bon moment!__"_

Carmen. How had he accidentally given her Carmen? He wanted her to practice for Margarita, wanted to make sure that she could triumph when the time came, for he had already formed the plan in his mind. She was such an innocent little flower… how did she manage to sing Carmen with so much… seduction? He cast his eyes upon her figure, from her slender feet hidden behind her tattered gown, up her narrow waist, over her pale throat, into the clear and angelic depth of her blue eyes… He closed his eyes and played on, played until the end of the aria, before he stood and burst out as Don Jose, facing off with her. Her eyes locked onto his as he sang.

"_Tais-toi," _he sang, more anger coiled up in his soul than he had felt in years. _"Je t'avais dit de ne pas me parler_!"

She took a step closer to him. "_Je ne te parle pas, je chante pour moi-même, je chante pour moi-même! Et je pense! il n'est pas défendu de penser!"_

His head began to spin. He couldn't understand what was running through his veins, how the sound of her voice made his fingers tremble, made the hair at the back of his beck stand on end…

_ "Je pense à certain officier._" _I am thinking of a man of war. _She gave him a coy little smile, and it made his knees weak. Had a woman ever looked at him like that before? G-d, she had never been like this. It was the part, it had to be the part… she was becoming Carmen before his eyes. "_Je pense à certain officier qui m'aime," I am thinking of a man of war who treasures me, "et qu'à mon tour, oui, qu'à mon tour je pourrais bien aimer_!" _And that I could,_ _oh yes, I could love!_

Love. _Love. _The word repeated in his mind as she finished the aria, breathless, staring at him with those wide eyes, her innocent smile returning to her face, waiting for his critique. _Love. _He turned from her quickly, holding a hand to his stomach, holding in tears. _A man she could love?_ He staggered towards the piano, holding himself steady against the bench, pressing memories from his mind like shutting a window against a gale.

_"Erik." _He heard her voice as clear as day, saw her face in front of him, her blank eyes searching… "_Erik, why are you so tense?"_

_ "I'm afraid, Emily. I'm afraid—"_

_ "Don't be frightened, silly. I'm going to do it really fast, I promise. What's to be scared of anyway? You're the silliest man I ever met."_

_ She reached out a hand, and he grabbed it before she could touch his mask. _

_ "Promise me—" his voice broke. What could he ask of her? Promise not to run away? Promise to still love me? "Promise me you won't leave."_

_ "Oh Erik," she laughed. "You're so silly!" He slowly released her hand and closed his eyes._

_ "Erik?"_

_ "Erik?"_

"Erik?" A hand touched his shoulder. He jerked back suddenly, bringing both hands to his mask, making sure it was still secure upon his face, pressing the material tight onto his cheeks. Christine fell back a step, confused.

"Did I do something awful?" She asked, her hand falling away from him and dropping to her side. He stared at her, his breath coming in heavy waves, darkness infecting his mind from every corner, threatening to consume him. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I must have been awful, I'm sorry—"

"No," he nearly choked on his words. "No. You are a star."

She blushed, and he sucked in a deep breath, trying to ground himself in the present. He must forget about love. He must forget Emily. He must forget everything but the music, but her glorious voice…

"I should get back, I guess…" She seemed not to know what to do with herself with Erik giving her direction. He held out a hand and she looked at it suspiciously for a moment before taking it. He led her into the Louis-Philippe room and sat her down in a chair.

"I have something for you," he said.

Her face brightened. "Really?" Her smiled was nearly infectious, but he found himself too exhausted to feel.

"Wait one moment." He disappeared into the kitchen where he had left the small envelope into which he had transferred the money. It wouldn't do to give her an envelope addressed to O.G!

He sealed it carefully with a golden sticker, and then returned to hand it to her. She took it from his hands with barely concealed excitement.

"I haven't gotten a present since… I can't even remember when!" She tore open the envelope and watched, shocked, as francs began to pour out onto her lap.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered. She looked up at him. "I can't take this." She began to gather it all into her palm, trying to stuff it back into the envelope. He stayed her hand.

"Christine," he said seriously. "I am a ghost. I have no need for this money. Take it for yourself."

"But—"

"No buts. I cannot have my student dressed in rags, can I? When you take Paris, you shall look as regal as a queen."

"Oh," she smiled, but tears had sprung to her eyes. "Oh, Erik, you've made me the happiest girl in Paris!" And she rose to hug him, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck, but she quickly pulled away, a blush creeping up the sides of her neck.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

He cleared his throat, warmth spreading through his stomach. "No trouble," he said, his voice rougher than he would have liked. "I want you to use that money as you see fit. Never hesitate to ask me for more. I will provide for you."

"You're the best friend I've ever had," she said sincerely, her cheeks glowing red with happiness.

He nodded, suddenly feeling very old and very tired. "Come, you must sleep. You have an early rehearsal tomorrow."

* * *

The gala was only days away, and Erik had managed to avoid the seer so well that he thought the man may have given up. It would be better that way anyway. He had a career to see to. And it so happened that a certain Spanish diva was standing in the way of that career.

On the Tuesday before the gala, after having made Christine run through Margarita twice the night before, Erik stole a hairbrush from Carlotta's dressing room, causing her and her maids to turn the room upside down looking for it, right through that morning's rehearsal. When M. Mercier came to knock on her door, she screamed at him in Spanish, and Erik dropped the hairbrush back on her vanity. He asked her what was missing, and she threw her arms up, describing the hairbrush. M. Mercier approached her vanity and gingerly picked up the brush.

"Is this is it, Madame?"

She screeched and accused him of theft, before shooing him from her dressing room and questioning each of her maids in succession, who of course knew nothing. She went to afternoon rehearsal in a huff, and during her final aria Erik dropped a rat he had stolen from the rat catcher down the back of her dress. She fell down in a fit, and he didn't bother to conceal his laughter. When the rat had scurried away into the orchestra pit, she stood up, her hair sticking out at odd angles from her hat, her eyes fuming.

"M. Manager," she said, "I will not perform in this Opera House!" She called her maids and they followed her in a line, each running to keep up with her. Poligny looked livid, and Debienne was ready to cry. Chuckling, Erik followed her to her dressing room, where a note was waiting for her.

_You have a bad cold. If you are wise, you will see that it is madness to try to sing at the gala night. If you appear, you must be prepared for a great misfortune at the moment when you open your mouth to sing._

He did not sign the note, and to his great surprise, she did not immediately attribute it to him, as he was sure many of the ballet rats would have done. Instead she folded the letter into her bodice, dismissed all of her maids, and ordered a carriage to take her home.

That night Erik taught Christine in a more elevated mood than he could ever remember being in. He felt like dancing, like playing a rollicking tune on his violin and sweeping her up into his arms. Of course, he refrained. She was too fragile for that, like a glass unicorn meant for admiring, but not for living. But she was changing. His lessons were taking away the pallor from her skin, allowing a smile to break through her face even during rehearsal. She was still timid and painfully thin, but at least she had gained a spark of life in her eyes.

She had used the money to buy several new dresses and even a pretty bonnet, which she had wasted no time in showing him in her childish glee. He got into the habit of following her from rehearsal to the dormitories, until she was ready to meet him. He noticed that Jammes and the girls didn't pick on her as much as they used to, although every so often she found herself the victim of one of their mean tricks. He remembered one particularly unfortunate conversation, when she had first tried on one of her new dressed. She stood twirling in the mirror, looking at the dress from every angle with such an angelic expression on her face, and Jammes had suddenly come behind her, hands on her hips.

"Where'd you get that, Christine?"

Christine forgot to drop her smile, and turned to Jammes excitedly. "I bought it just yesterday. Isn't it lovely? I—"

"Where'd you get the money? Oh, I forgot," Jammes smirked, turning away and calling over her shoulder, "you don't mind whoring yourself out for money. Was the count a good lay?"

Several of the other girls covered their laughter behind their hands and Christine stood before the mirror, her face ashen, her hands shaking. Erik threw his voice into her ear, and she quickly turned and obeyed him, meeting him in the washroom. He caught her just before she fell, sobbing. It had taken quite a while to comfort her afterwards. He didn't mind doing it. He didn't mind making sure that no one laid a finger on her, didn't mind watching her fall asleep, singing a sweet lullaby into her ear if she was tossing, didn't mind sitting in the Louis-Philippe room and talking with her for hours into the night, didn't mind any of it—as long as she sang. He knew he had to keep her happy, so that her voice could reach those soaring heights… he would focus on nothing but her voice, nothing but this gala. She had to triumph, for both of them. He knew she would not fail him. Nothing mattered, nothing except her voice.

The next day, Erik continued his abuse of Carlotta. It was imperative that she did not sing on Friday, and even more important that the ghost was not suspected of having a connection with her refusal to perform. He wanted Christine to feel as though her success was her own. He had stuck a letter to her mirror, this time.

_If you sing, you will sing Faust in a house with a curse upon it. Take my advice and be warned in time._

Carlotta fluffed out her hair and ripped the note from the mirror and tore it into little shreds.

"I am La Carlotta!" She said into the mirror. Trying not to smile, Erik plunged her room into darkness. She screamed, and he turned the lights up immediately. "They are trying to scare me!" She said to herself. "Well they will have to try harder! It is that Carolus, the fool! He is always jealous."

He followed her down the corridor, making sure to knock as hard as possible on each dark corner, and make as much noise as he could by tumbling old crates and knocking over sets.

"_Dios!"_ She cursed, starting to pick up her pace. He knew she was superstitious. All he had to do was convince her that the stars were against her. He left her alone for the day, trying to concoct the perfect plan to be rid of her.

That night, Christine was sublime. When she was finished, she leaned against the piano, trying to catch her breath.

"I'm so nervous for the gala!" She said. "What if I mess up?"

He laughed. "You won't mess up, Christine. You were made for the stage."

"You have so much faith in me… I can hardly keep pace with the shortest girl in my line!"

He indulged her fears, but did not tell her that she would not be dancing with the other girls that night. Instead, he beckoned her closer. "Christine, are you ready for greatness?"

She smiled down at him. "What do you mean?"

"When the time comes, will you be ready to sing?"

She shrugged, looking over the music for Margarita. "Do you really think I'm ready? I just don't think I'm good enough yet—it's not as if the managers have sent me a handwritten invitation to sing, in any case!" She laughed, but he seized her shoulders suddenly.

"Christine, you're a genius."

* * *

_Dear Mme Carlotta,_

_ It has been brought to our attention that your aging sister, Señora Adalina de Silva, has been brought to the south of France for medical treatment, and she requests your immediate presence at the Hospital Saint Eloy of Montpellier. We understand your position; we will explain to the cast. Please make no delay for our sakes._

_ We remain & etc,_

_ The Managers_

Carlotta held the letter in her trembling fingers, reading it over several times before placing it on her desk, all color drained from her face. Erik knew he had done well to pay attention all those years when Carlotta had demanded time off to see her "dear sister." She rose from her desk, smoothing down the edges of her skirt, and then grabbing her hat and her coat and leaving the room immediately. He followed her to the edges of the Opera House, just to be sure of her departure. When she was gone, Erik felt a great glee swell up in his chest, and he felt as childish as Christine in celebrating his victory.

He quickly penned a letter to M. Gabriel, who was sure to pop an artery when he found out that Carlotta was gone.

_M. Gabriel,_

_ As La Carlotta had no understudy, you will find that a singular Mlle. Christine Daae of the chorus is perfectly able and willing to sing the part of Margarita for tomorrow night's gala. You cannot afford to waste time in this matter. Believe me, etc. _

All there was to do now was sit back and watch his plan unfold. Tomorrow night, he would triumph.

**Yay! Scheming Erik! I love it… So you see now he wants his salary… Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! It was certainly the longest so far, but there was a lot of plot to get through! Oooh I really want you guys to love this story as much as I do! Please review as soon as possible, please please please! Don't leave your poor authoress hanging in the abyss that is no-review zone.**

******By the way I have a bunch of people to cite... okay so the line "suddenly he had the most outrageous idea." That is paraphrased/quoted from Susan Kay's phantom (I didn't have my book on me because I was stupid and left it somewhere other than here so I'm not totally sure, but in any case it wasn't my line.) There are a bunch of quotes from Leroux's book, including several of the texts of the notes. And of course, the text of Carmen is from the opera. I've taken Carlotta's Spanish origin from Leroux as well, although most people (probably because of ALW) call her Italian. I'm not sure why I've made Jammes the evil one, it was just what flowed... anyway hope I don't get sued!**

** Let me know what you thought/what you are thinking! Tell me what you think Erik is thinking about Christine right now!**

** I love you guys! But ahhh depression... Maybe I don't know how to read the stats thing right but it says plenty of people are reading the story... and yet there are not that many reviewers... I totally understand though, because we all do it... we all go through stories and even if we like them we just don't review. But on the author side, reviews are better than cupcakes! More precious than air! **

**Please, please, if you like this story, please encourage me to continue writing by leaving a review! **

** ~Ice Cliff.**


	5. The Gala

**Chaptah five! ATTN: If you didn't read chapter four (the NEW and UPDATED version which is really different from the old one... definitely read that first!) **

**I'm so excited! Thank you to all who reviewed, and keep it coming! Seriously though…**

**Also to continue my encouragement of people to see Love Never Dies which I began on my profile, I'd like to give you two more reasons: In general I hate Raoul a lot a lot a lot but at the end of LND I actually didn't hate him, which is a huge achievement. (Actually though if you don't like him maybe this isn't an encouragement, but at least it should intrigue you.) And second, there's this awesome awesome line to look forward to: "That perfidious Raoul!" I mean, come on. Come on. That's the best line ever written. (But really, who left that line in the show?)**

**Anywho… here's chapter five! I hope you love it =) Don't forget to review, please!**

"We have no title-deeds to house or lands;

Owners and occupants of earlier dates

From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,

And hold in mortmain still their old estates."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

Erik instructed Christine to meet him early Friday morning. Sleep still rested on her eyes when he took her down to the dining room on the lake, but she looked excited, nonetheless.

"Why did we need to meet so early?" She asked, smothering a yawn. "Are we rehearsing more? I really need to practice my dancing, not Margarita!"

Erik smirked, and guided her into a chair. He got onto his knees before her and held both of her hands in his.

"Christine, Carlotta will not be performing in tonight's gala."

"Not performing! But she has no understudy—"

"You will be taking her part."

Her face went pale. "Me?" She whispered. "Me? But, how…"

"No matter," he said. "This is your time. You can now, Christine Daae, give to men a little of the music of Heaven."

She breathed in heavily. "Oh, Erik, I don't think I can do it—all those people—"

"Nonsense," he said. He squeezed one of her hands. "I'll be right beside you."

She held on to his hand tightly. "I never could have dreamed of such a thing."

"Once you go on that stage, you'll never want to come down again."

A tear lodged in her eye. "My father would be so proud."

Erik pulled her up to stand and led her to sit beside the fire. She crossed one leg over the other and snuggled into the chair. Erik leaned himself up against the fireplace, looking back at her.

"Tell me of your father," he said.

"What is there to tell?" Her voice lost much of its color. "He is dead."

Erik spread out his arms expansively. "You speak as though I have no understanding of the dead, Christine."

Despite herself, she giggled a bit. "I don't think anyone's made me laugh before, when I thought of my father." She brought her eyes to his, and there was a tenderness reflected there that made him soften his gaze in return. "Father was a violinist. He was very good. Although I've never heard anyone play as well as you."

Erik shrugged. "I have given my life to music."

Christine nodded. "Father was very sad when mother died. Very sad. It was—horrible. He didn't eat for days. I was six… I don't remember her very well."

Erik made a gesture for her to continue when she faltered. He had already guessed at some of this. What he really wanted to know was how and when she ended up in a French orphanage.

"Father and I moved from Uppsala to Gothenburg, because Papa wanted to play his violin in the villages. I used to sing with him every day. It was the best time of my life… it didn't last very long."

"No doubt he taught you much about music." Erik stoked the fire a bit, and Christine sneezed at the attack of woodchip dust that sprung from the fireplace.

"Papa and I lived in music," she said, wiping her nose on her sleeve in the most unladylike motion he had seen from her.

"Here." He offered a handkerchief to her, and she smiled impishly, taking it from him and wiping her face. She examined the stitching on the edges.

"E. G. D?" She asked. "Is that your name? Erik G. D.?"

Erik closed his eyes and gripped the mantle as tightly as he could without hurting himself. "No," he breathed. "That handkerchief is not mine."

"But… oh." He turned to look at her and he knew she had made the connection he had dreaded. She looked quickly from the handkerchief to his left hand and then away again. "Your wife—"

"Please, Christine, my wife is dead. She has been dead for many years."

"I'm sorry, Erik."

He didn't acknowledge this, and found it almost funny that she was sorry for him, that she thought he was remembering a sweet life spent with a loving wife…

"What was her name?" She asked quietly.

"Emily," he whispered. "Emily Garnier."

"Garnier?" She perked up in recognition. "Like, the architect?"

"Yes… his only sister."

"You must have been very close," she said solemnly. He closed his fist tightly, and then took the handkerchief from her more forcefully than he had intended and dropped it in the lake.

When he returned, she was staring at him wide-eyed. "I didn't mean to bring it up, Erik, I'm sorry—"

"You do not need to apologize, Christine." He looked around, trying to distract himself. "I'll tell you a story, shall I? Have you ever heard tales of the east?"

He picked a slim volume from the bookshelf and flipped through the pages, looking for a light, happy story, to take the edge off the morning. He needed her to be in the best state of mind for tonight.

She clapped her hands, and once again looked like a small child. He sat across from her. "Papa used to tell me stories of the north."

"Well, in essence all peoples have the same stories. Let me take you to India…"

He read to her for several hours, and she laughed and cried at turns along with the poor characters. Eventually he knew it was time for rehearsal. He led her upstairs, and before releasing her into the theatre, he took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"You will triumph tonight, Christine Daae, and the world will lose their souls at your voice."

She nodded, her frame beginning to tremble.

"Don't do that," he said. "Don't be scared." She tried to steel herself, but only ended by looking strained.

"I'll be with you," Erik said. "Come straight to your dressing room after the performance. I'll be waiting for you."

"All right." She squeezed his arm. "Thank you, Erik. You're my angel." She turned and ran away, trying to mingle with the rest of the girls. He leaned against the wall and watched her, watched as M. Gabriel called her forth, watched as all the other girls' mouths dropped open, and listened as she breathed life into the theatre with her music. His limbs were trembling in anticipation of what would come that night.

* * *

The gala was an affair the likes of which no one had seen in Paris since the grand opening of the Palais Garnier. Long gowns dripping in gems swept the marble staircases and men in top hats and tails guided their ladies on their arms, each talking to the other of their businesses while their wives secretly sized each other up. The dancers were all running through their moves while Sorelli practiced the speech she had prepared for the outgoing managers. Jammes powdered her face, hogging the mirror while all the other girls jostled and tried to get on a bit of rouge before the curtain went up. Christine stood in her new dressing room, staring into her mirror as a maid laced her into Margarita's dress.

Every big composer of the day was there that night, mingling and joking with counts and countesses as they took their seats. Gounod himself conducted the _Funeral March of a Marionnette_, along with many other great names and voices of the century. The audience was by turns enraptured, devastated, elevated, and ecstatic. When Christine stepped onto the stage in place of La Carlotta, several subscribers elbowed each other and asked who this young blond was, but as soon as she opened her mouth, a hushed silence fell over the audience, who watched her every move as if she were a hummingbird, a delicate beauty going to disappear at any moment.

Erik watched from the ceiling, his heart swelling in pride, her voice fulfilling him like nothing in his life ever had. He let out a long, satisfied sigh, and she lifted her arms and rang out, "Holy angel in heaven blessed, my spirit longs with thee to rest!"

If he were alive, he was sure he would have died, would have fallen straight through the earth and into heaven. He marveled that one note from her crystal throat, hit at the perfect pitch and with sterling quality, was more heartrending than a hundred notes from a lesser singer. When she was finished, the audience jumped to its feet, and she was showered with roses from every corner of the stage. She squinted into the lights, curtsying and laughing, as the managers came on stage to end the gala. The counts had all stood up in their boxes, although Erik failed to notice one who was not clapping, and instead staring at Christine with a dumbfounded expression on his face.

"Daae!" The audience chanted, as she was escorted off stage. "Daae! Daae!" Erik jumped from his seat and immediately rushed to her room, stealing a few stray flowers along the way. He heard her dismiss her maid at the door, and then she nearly fell over her skirts into the room, the door slamming shut behind her. When they met eyes, Erik felt his heart jump with a wild joy that he had never felt. They both hesitated a moment before running to each other. He caught her in his arms and swung her around in a circle before she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

"Oh, Erik!" She laughed. "It was incredible!"

"You were incredible," he whispered, pulling her tighter.

"I sang for you tonight," she said into his ear.

"Are you very tired?" He asked, as they swayed from side to side, locked in the embrace. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath filled with the scent of her hair. Had he never noticed before that the precious voice belonged to beautiful girl? His senses were confused, his mind telling him that all he cared for was her voice, while his body told him something different…

"Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead!"

He chucked slightly. "Your soul is a beautiful thing, child, and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift." He set her down on the ground and held her at arm's length. "_The angels wept tonight, _Christine."

She clutched his shoulders in reply, words at the tip of her tongue, her eyes shining with adoration, before a loud knock at the door interrupted them.

"Mademoiselle? Mlle. Christine?"

Erik's eyes instantly narrowed at the sound of a man's voice, and he let go of her.

"Who is it?" He asked in a low tone.

"Oh!" She grasped his hand tightly. "It's Raoul! Raoul de Chagny!"

"Who?" Had he been right, then, that she had a patron? It didn't seem to make sense, not now. And she had said that the Viscount was not her benefactor, not at all… he remembered that he had asked her about the de Chagnys once and she had blown it off…

"Raoul! Oh, we were childhood friends! I haven't seen him in so many years."

"Mademoiselle?" Asked the voice again. Erik wanted to crush the life out of it with a sudden pang of jealousy that surprised him. "Are you there?"

She began to walk towards the door, and Erik immediately hid behind the mirror. She turned before she opened the door.

"Erik—oh—" She gave a cursory glance around the room before flinging the door open. That boy with his stupid moustache stood waiting in the doorway with a bouquet of flowers, and Erik remembered that he had been holding several flowers in his own hand, forgotten in the moment of ecstasy of seeing her.

"Mademoiselle," the boy intoned seriously. Erik resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _Get on with it boy! _He wanted to bring Christine down to the house on the lake, wanted to sit with her and talk with her, wanted to look into her bright blue eyes… _Madness! _When had this started? She didn't mean anything to him, she was just his voice, just his triumph, his student, his legacy… wasn't she? The boy placed a kiss upon her hand. "I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf."

"I know you!" Christine laughed and pulled him inside, and Erik could not believe the change in her, a change he only saw now as she offered the viscount a seat in her dressing room. When he had first seen her, months ago, she had been nothing more than a dying flower, scared of everyone, ready to welcome death… and now she stood, erect and glowing, a beautiful, rare gem, entertaining the likes of a viscount! He had affected this change, had he not? Had he not cared for her, listened to her, dried her tears? The viscount had been at the Opera for several years now. Did he only now recognize the little girl whose scarf he had saved, now that she had triumphed?

They talked briefly in inside jokes that Erik did not understand, which only furthered his resentment.

"Little Lotte," the viscount said, as Christine sat herself beside him on the couch. "Let her mind wander."

Christine blushed. "Oh but Raoul, that was so long ago."

"Indeed it was. We must renew our acquaintance, musn't we? May I take you to supper tonight?"

Christine grabbed his wrists with giddiness before rising. "Only let me change, M. le viscount, and I will be with you momentarily!"

"Excellent. I shall wait for you outside. Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls or frocks…" The viscount closed the door behind him, and Christine twirled in a circle in the middle of the room before falling gracefully onto the couch.

"Oh, Papa!" She said, her hands feeling her blushing cheeks. "The most wonderful night of my life!" Erik knotted his fists in his jacket, trying to hold down his emotions. She would go to dinner with that—that fop, and forget him so easily? He struggled against himself, trying to remember that it was just her voice, just her voice that he was interested in, and nothing else… And suddenly she was standing in front of the mirror, directly before him, applying rouge to her cheeks and staring excitedly at her reflection as she brushed out her luxurious blond hair. He stumbled backwards, his heart dropping into his stomach, before he fled down into the cellars.

_Christine, Christine, Christine._ Her voice tore at the edges of his mind and her petite little hand seized at his heart and wouldn't let go. He fell to his knees before the lake and clawed at his mask. It couldn't be, it just couldn't be… he couldn't possibly have allowed himself to do something so utterly, so mindlessly stupid… he didn't love her! He didn't care a hang for her! He would not see her again, not ever again. He would find the Persian and cross himself over as soon as he could. He clutched a fist against his chest and refused to acknowledge the tears that suddenly fell from his cheeks into the lake.

* * *

"I didn't expect to ever see you again, after Mlle. Daae's triumph last night," the Persian said, straightening the edges of his jacket after Erik had forced him into a narrow passageway.

"I can't imagine why," Erik said, cringing. The sound of her name hurt his ears. "I want to cross over immediately. Enough with this nonsense about getting to know me. Tell me what to do."

The Persian shrugged. "If you were ready to cross over, you would see a bright light before you. If you don't see it, you're not ready. It's as simple as that."

"Dammit, you _asinine Persian dolt_!" Erik slammed a fist against the wall. "I can't stand to be here any longer!"

The Persian considered him for a long while before shifting his weight to lean on the wall. "As it happens, I did some research. You were in Persia, I see, at the same time I was, although it seems our paths never crossed. Erik Devereux, isn't it?"

Erik sucked in a breath. That was a part of his past he never wanted to reopen… the damned Khanum and her ugly, viscious tricks… "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I was there."

"I wasn't in favor at court at the time of the construction of the Mazanderan Palace… but I remember it going up. I remember how everyone talked of the Shah's new architect, his newest confidante, a foreigner… and I remember thinking it was only a matter of time before the poor man had his eyes gouged out for building something so beautiful."

Erik clenched his fists tightly. "The Shah was no more than a boy, jealous and childish."

"And yet how did you manage to escape him?"

Erik shook his head. "It is old news, M. Khan."

"Please, call me Nadir."

Erik shrugged, but did not respond.

The Persian continued. "I understand that you were also involved in the construction of this Opera House, although after that the records are exceedingly sparse."

"This is worthless," Erik said. "I have nothing that tethers me here, nothing at all."

"Except… for Mlle. Daae."

Erik nearly ripped the door from its hinges, he gripped it so hard. "I have no connection with her, none whatsoever. I owe her _nothing_!"

"Becoming involved with someone who is alive is often what keeps a ghost tied to—"

"I am not—did I say—_damn you!"_ Erik turned from Nadir to stop himself from hitting him. "Do you want to be killed?"

Shockingly, Nadir did not seem fazed by any of this behavior. "Crossing over isn't eating bonbons, Erik. It's not easy."

"I just want—I just want to leave. Is that really too much to ask?"

Nadir sighed. "This girl, Mlle. Daae. If she is a seer, as you say, why doesn't she try to cross you over as well?"

Her eyes, her bright blue eyes, shot through Erik's mind, and he shook his head, trying desperately to clear it. He didn't want this feeling, didn't want it at all! "I don't think she knows she is a seer," Erik said after a moment.

Nadir's eyebrows shot into his hairline, and he took off his red hat and dusted off the top very carefully. Erik recognized it as the motion of someone who did not wish to say something.

"What is it?" he asked. "Out with it."

Nadir slowly brought his eyes to Erik's. "I find it very unlikely that she would be unaware of her gift."

Nadir said it as though Erik had never given the idea one thought, and it irritated him even further. "What if she grew up somewhere that wasn't haunted? Somewhere like an orphanage?"

Nadir shook his head. "It's impossible. Walking out on the streets, one sees at least two ghosts on each corner. Unless she's been going around with her eyes closed…"

Erik narrowed his eyes. "What are you suggesting then, _Nadir?_" Erik threw the name in his face like an insult.

Nadir fingered the edges of his hat, slowly. "I find it hard to believe that she is a seer," was all he said.

"But then how could she possibly hear me?"

Nadir nodded. "That is the question, isn't it? Allow me some time. I will look into the matter."

Erik suddenly had him up against a wall, his arm against his neck, without realizing when it had happened.

"You will not touch her."

Nadir plied Erik's arm away gingerly. "I wouldn't dream of it." He placed his hat pack on his head and bowed slightly. "I will seek you out, Erik." He disappeared through the door and Erik resisted the urge to plunge everything in his sight into oblivion.

* * *

Days later, and still the Opera House was buzzing with the triumph of Christine Daae. At least twenty subscribers posted themselves outside of the doors of the Opera every day, waiting for a glimpse of the young diva. The company was not due to perform again until Faust, which they were to be giving in two months. Carlotta still hadn't returned, but Erik predicted a great tumult from her when she did. As the new managers made their transition to the post, Erik kept a close eye on them, making sure that at least one person mentioned his presence to them. He didn't want to have to waste time dealing with new idiots in the office.

He had taken it upon himself to write his salary into the lease, to ensure its continued appearance, although he wasn't sure if he really needed it anymore, since he planned to keep far, far away from her. The two bumbled about the office, throwing papers about and trying to familiarize themselves with the workings of the Opera. M. Mercier and M. Gabriel stood by, watching them work, ready to answer any questions that arose.

Erik quickly sized them up. M. Moncharmin seemed to be a bit of a bully, but at least a good natured one, while clearly M. Richard was the musical one; he had composed several well-accepted pieces of the day, and one of them had been played at the gala night. They attended to various financial matters, before M. Moncharmin sighed and set down his pen.

"You there," he called. "M. Gabriel?"

M. Gabriel stepped forward. "Yes, M. le directuer."

"What's this nonsense in the lease that Poligny babbled about? What's this ghost business?"

M. Gabriel swallowed, and slid his eyes towards M. Mercier, who refused to meet his gaze. "There—there's a ghost, sir."

"Yes, I gathered." He looked at M. Richard, and they both began to laugh. "Come now. You truly expect us all to believe that there is a cantankerous ghost plodding about?"

M. Gabriel shrugged, shifting his feet uncomfortably. "Cross him, sir, and then you will see."

"Are you threatening us, M. Gabriel?" Moncharmin asked. Richard laid a hand on his shoulder. He smiled at the two.

"We will call you in when we need further assistance," he said, and gestured for them to leave. They quickly filed out the door, and Moncharmin slapped open the book of the lease.

"Look at this. It's ridiculous. I am expected to pay a salary to a ghost? What services does he provide for me?"

Erik laughed darkly before stepping away, thinking of how he would convince these managers of the "services" he could render. Services indeed… Moncharmin should consider the _lack_ of accidents to be a great service! In the end though, Erik wasn't terribly concerned. He knew he could win over these managers, as he had Poligny and Debienne.

He slithered through the dark corridors, dropping into the first cellar and observing how the last light of the dying sun from above slipped in through the cracks in the ceiling, casting deep shadows across the floor. The first cellar had always been his favorite; a sort of mediator between his world below and the world above. He wondered again, at the mysterious words of the Persian. What was it that Nadir hoped to discover about her? How could she possibly have to do with Erik's spirit, when Erik had been the one to initiate contact?

It didn't make any sense, and more than that, he didn't want to think about her anymore. He figured that if he could avoid her for long enough, he could eventually forget about her, forget this madness… He descended to his home and played through the first act of his Opera, _Don Juan Triumphant._ It had been twenty years since he had worked at it, but the second act was beginning to form itself in his mind, strong and powerful and intense. He scribbled furiously on stave after stave, crumbling papers and throwing them across the room, ripping new ones from his book and slapping them onto the stand, trying to cram his music onto the page as quickly as he could. He would _beat _this out of himself. He would gouge it out, he would spit it out, he would write all his pain on the page and purge himself of love… that would do it, wouldn't it? That would cure him… it had to.

* * *

When Erik became aware of his surroundings once more, he found himself at an impasse in the act, unable to move on from one aria to the next. He set down his pen, his fingers tense and sore, and moved to the Louis-Philippe room to start a fire. It was ludicrous, really, that he had begun to live down here again, when he was a ghost, and certainly couldn't really "live" anywhere at all! All of this, her… all of it had been madness, utter madness.

Erik poked at the fire with his left hand, and the light glinted off of his wedding ring. He slipped the ring from his finger, twirling it in his palm. He would have no more to do with her, with either of them. It was time for him to renounce love, completely. Time for him to finally except his fate. Could that be what was holding him back? If he placed his ring on the mantle and swore to drop it off the roof of the Opera, would that finally allow him to move on? He closed his eyes, and thought hard of that light Nadir had spoken about, a light he imagined as a doorway into the next world, a place where, perhaps, he wouldn't be singled out for unique torture… He opened his eyes slowly, hoping, expecting to see that doorway of light before him, beckoning him.

The universe mocked him. The universe truly mocked him. There was no door before him, no light at all. Instead, he heard the panicked and tear-stricken voice of Christine Daae calling to him from above.

"Erik? Erik, are you there?"

He slammed the poker on the ground, his anger twisting up inside his chest like a dragon. _No! No! _He threw the twisted poker away from him, hearing it clang against the wall and hoping it would drown out the sound of her voice.

"Erik? Please help me." The sound of her whimpering sighs—nothing new to him! Why, didn't she have the viscount to rescue her?

"Erik please!" A magnificent sob reached him, and he tore his hands into his hair. How dare she? _How dare she? _In a fit of fury, he picked up a candle and left his home. If she wanted the Opera Ghost, she would get the Opera Ghost.

** Yay! I finish! I love this chapter! Truthfully, I don't think I love the end of this chapter. I mean I like what happened, I just don't like the way that I wrote it. Anyway… I hope his reaction seems logical! If you don't think so, you know what to do… leave me a review! Anyway I love this Christine for some reason. She's really childish and innocent, and that's exactly what I see from Leroux's Christine, although I do believe Leroux's Christine had more backbone than we give her credit for… **

** So… what's going on with Nadir and Christine and the seer business? Oooh sketchy sketchy… we shall soon see!**

** In terms of citations for this chapters… whew… okay… there is a lot of Kay Erik influencing me on this chapter, so all that goes to Kay, in particular the line "asinine Persian dolt" which I took directly from Kay. There were obviously some lines that were taken directly from Leroux, like the whole "an emperor never received" sequence between Erik and Christine… I think that's everything. I mean suffice it to say basically that I own nothing. **

** I hope you guys are absolutely loving it, really! Let me tell you a secret: I eat reviews for breakfast, you see, so if you don't review… I'll be too hungry to write more chapters!**

**Feed the authoress! Leave reviews!**

** ~IceCliff **


	6. Struggle of the Instinct

**Yay Chapter 6! Thank you for reviewing, TheBlackSister! You're the best!**

**I definitely had trouble figuring out how I was going to start this chapter, but no matter, it'll all come together somehow… anyway, glad to see you here! Hope you love it! =) Thanks to everyone who has been reviewing! **

**Also ps because I've seen someone ask about this… the fact that I put "Erik" at the beginning of each chapter is probably a bit misleading… I have no plans to have anyone else's POV besides for Erik until Christine's in the final chapter. Obviously if I change my mind you will see. I just don't want you guys to be sitting around waiting for a change that isn't coming.**

"The spirit-world around this world of sense

Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere

Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense

A vital breath of more ethereal air."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

Her voice was still ringing through his ears, but he decided to take the stairs, instead of floating up through the ceiling… just to make her wait. He had earned that hadn't he? If she could go to dinner with that boy with the fresh and handsome face and forget Erik, he could take the stairs! What could possibly be ailing her now, anyway?

A thousand insults flew through his mind and he tried to focus on his anger. He couldn't let her unsettle him, not with those long eyelashes, no… He eventually made it up on the landing of the second cellar, where he saw a figure piled in a heap on the ground. A broken lantern lay beside her. He suppressed a growl that suddenly rose in his chest. Was this necessary? _Was this really necessary?_

He nudged a barrel with his shoe, sliding it across the floor, trying to get her attention. The dark figure picked up its head and he saw Christine's shining pale cheeks reflected in the dim light. Tears were streaked down her face.

"Erik, you came!"

He said nothing, simply stood, towering above her. She reached out a hand towards him.

"I can't get up," she said.

G-d_dammit_! "What did you do to yourself?" He asked, roughly sliding his hands under her arms and lifting her onto the ground. She stumbled and limped, and eventually grabbed onto his elbow for support.

"I don't think I can walk," she said.

Afraid of crushing her in his anger, he hesitated a moment to collect himself before swiftly sliding her into his arms and ascending towards the theatre.

"Where are we going?"

"I am bringing you back to the dormitories. Someone can take care of you there. I suspect you've twisted your ankle."

"But Erik—"

"But _what_?" He asked, and there was so much venom in his voice that she clamped her mouth shut. He checked first to ensure that no one was lurking in the dormitory, and then deposited her on her bed. She curled up into a little ball, her ankle clearly twisted at an odd angle.

"I'd suggest you have someone look at that," he said, gesturing to her leg. He turned to leave, but she put out a hand and caught the edges of his jacket.

Her bright eyes were pleading. "I was looking for you, Erik. I haven't seen you in at least a week. But I couldn't figure out how to get down to your house, and then I tripped, and… you said you'd hear me whenever I called for you."

Looking for him? Why was she always looking for him? He pulled his jacket from her grasp and took in a deep breath.

"Aren't we going to continue our lessons?" She asked.

He wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, to completely drown out the sound of her voice, to stay her influence on him… G-d, the temptation of hearing her sing again… he could do it, couldn't he? He was strong. He had faced much worse than a little blond Swede. This nearly made him laugh. Of course he had faced worse! What could she do to him, anyway? She was too weak, too scared to really do anything at all. In any case, he didn't love her. Whatever he felt, whatever this was… it was just lust, just a faint stirring of the heart. It meant nothing. In time, he would crush it out.

He turned to her then, and smiled. "Of course we will. In fact, we will begin today."

* * *

Erik managed to ignore most of her feminine qualities throughout their lesson, and instead focused on her music. Yes, this had been a silly little episode, but he was over it now, he would be fine… he bandaged her ankle for her before the lesson, and when it was over she limped over to a couch and sprawled out, extending her wounded leg across the cushions. Erik remained on the piano bench, spreading his fingers over the keys, relishing the feeling of the vibrations, the echoes of the music…

Christine laid her head back on the arm of the couch, her hair spilling over the sides.

"Your home is so wonderfully decorated, Erik. How did you get everything down here?"

He found it odd that she asked that, and not the more obvious questions of why had decided to live in the cellars of an Opera. It wasn't exactly prime real estate!

"You can get people to do anything if you pay them enough," he said. She slid her eyes to him, something dark flashing across her face, and then looked away.

"I like being down here with you so much more than being in the dormitories." Erik stifled a sneer. It wouldn't do at all to have her say such things. "The girls are even worse to me now, after the gala… I think Jammes is incredibly jealous."

Erik suppressed a pang of regret. He hadn't been watching, hadn't been paying attention to the way people had been treating her. But, what need had he to take care of her? She could take care of herself! She had the viscount! With more acid dripping from his voice than he expected, he asked, "And your dinner with the viscount—this didn't improve your status?"

"Oh, Raoul?" Christine smiled, and Erik turned away again, dragging his nails against his trouser leg. "It was lovely. He's really a very good friend. But no one knows of it—none of the girls in the corps know. And if they did I'm sure it would just make them angrier."

Erik stared at the shining ivory keys. Why was he sitting here listening to this girl tell him of all of her problems? Why did he care? She needed to understand that he wasn't her plaything, wasn't available at her every beck and call. He needed to get her out of here, as soon as possible. He stood to approach her, but was stopped by the expression on her face. She met his eyes, tears standing unshed in hers.

"Did you know that they call me a whore? I hear them, all the time, whispering on stage and in the dormitories. They really think I—" Christine blinked and a single drop traced its way down her cheek before she sat up and forcefully batted it away. "They don't know anything about it!" She slammed her little fists against the couch and Erik was impressed at her show of emotion.

"Come," he said. "Let's return."

"Return?" She looked at him incredulously. "Return? Have you not been listening to me at all?"

This was irritating. He didn't want to deal with this. "Christine, I do not exist to listen to you complain—"

"Complain?" She shouted shrilly, trying to stand in her anger but failing because of her ankle. "Is that what you think of me? That I'm just some high strung ungrateful little— little—whore!"

G-d! She wanted him to strangle her, she really did! Erik buried his face in his hands and let out a low groan. "Would you please stop calling yourself a whore? Really, Christine—"

"What?" She asked, angry tears now falling from her eyes. "What, you think it's not true, you think they're wrong? Well let me tell you something, _Erik, _they're not wrong!"

He let his hands drop from his mask and suddenly all of the anger drained from her face and she gathered her legs to her and sank deep into the couch.

Erik sighed. What was it about her that was so… irresistible? Was a shared miserable existence a reason to be attracted to someone? He felt like it was his duty to comfort her, to help her live again, and the notion irritated him beyond belief. He shouldn't need to owe her anything! He perched himself gingerly atop the arm of the couch as she rested her chin on her knees and stared at the piano. He waited for her to speak.

"People always told me I was very pretty," Christine said, her voice cold. "People at the orphanage always said… like it was going to help me somehow, that I was pretty."

Erik sensed that something dark was coming.

"Well I guess no one much wanted to adopt a girl who was very pretty. Madame Clemence got angry with me, eventually. She said I was taking up space, had to earn my due—" Christine stopped short and Erik began to rise.

"Christine, you don't have to—"

"She wanted to make extra money that the government didn't know about," Christine said, raising her voice above Erik's. "She—there were men. They made me—_do things_—"

Erik stood then, his hands turning to ice, too uncomfortable to sit. "Christine," he said, and his voice shook.

"They were so kind!" She let out a hysterical laugh. "It was so nice of them to leave me so fresh and _pure_. It was a selling point for them—the virgin who—"

"Christine, please—"

"Please what?" She shot him a venomous look. "Please _what_? Please you don't want to hear? Please you'd rather not deal with this? How lucky for you to have the choice. This is what I am, Erik!"

His hands were trembling, and he tried to clamp them together, tried to control himself. Mental images of what she might have been through stampeded through his mind and he tried to push them away as quickly as he could, a great anger and a great sadness welling up inside of him.

"What happened to you is not who you are, Christine, not at all." He stared at the wall, trying to think of nothing. He wanted to kill these people, these monsters. But her actions made sense now. He understood the mindset of the young timid girl he had first seen mouthing the words in the chorus. G-ddamn… _poor Christine…_ he wanted to save her, he really did… and at the same time he wanted nothing to do with her again…

"What would you know about it?" She asked, her voice twisted.

He laughed darkly. "Because what happened to me _is_ who I am, and you are not me. That much I know." He turned and looked at her, and her eyes alighted upon the mask in a way they never had before. He suddenly felt like he was suffocating.

"I always wondered—the mask—"

"Is none of your concern." She blinked and opened her mouth, but he shook his head in a tight, controlled motion. _Oh G-d, please. She can never know. She must never know. _"If you value your safety you will not ever mention it again. You will put it out of your mind completely."

"Are—are you threatening me?" Her voice was angry, not at all the quiet and terrified squeak he would have expected from her.

"I am merely giving you boundaries, Christine. I have said that I am what I have done. Suffice it to say that it would make your blood run cold to know all I have done."

She stared at him, her expression rigid and fuming. "I trusted you," she whispered. "I've never told anyone about this, and I told you. I thought you would—I thought you—" She suddenly stopped talking. "I want to go back now," she said.

Erik sighed. He wanted to hate her. He wanted so badly to hate her and never speak to her again. But how could he? How could he leave her to the darkness of her own mind when he had prayed for Emily to save him from his own? He kneeled down on the floor before her and opened his mouth and began to sing.

* * *

Christine eventually fell asleep on the couch, and Erik carried her to the room she had stayed in before and tucked her into the bed after checking to make sure her bandage was secure. He sat beside her, wanting to stroke her hair, but keeping his hands firmly rooted to his sides. Her soft breathing was even and calm, and her face was relaxed in a way that he had hardly seen it. He stared at her hard, trying to understand what it meant that his breast felt light whenever he looked at her. How had he spent so much time with her over the last month, teaching her and talking with her and singing with her, and not realized that he felt more for her than friendship? Erik sighed. He stood and ran a hand through his hair, sparse though it was. Where could this lead to, but agony? He had to nip this in the bud. He pulled Christine into his arms and made his way back to the dormitories, hoping that she wouldn't hate him too much for what had just happened between them. He felt enormous sympathy for her, for what she had been forced to endure. He knew what it meant to be a person caged, forced to perform… if only things could be different… if he weren't the way he was, if she didn't have that viscount… maybe there could have been a future for them.

Erik turned from her and cast his eyes about the empty dormitory. He had never thought that he would feel anything akin to love again, not after everything that had happened. It was too horrible, love was too horrible. He had felt its flames once, felt that inhuman joy of being loved by someone else, before… before. Erik shuddered. He turned away from the dormitory and ascended to the roof to say hello to his stars.

* * *

When Erik returned to the theatre the next afternoon, he was graced with the horribly high pitched tones of the viscount. He glanced up at the ceiling, understanding that someone up there truly had it in for him. He slowly crept up behind the boy and shadowed him as he made his way through the Opera with his brother, who was looking for La Sorelli.

"Just don't make a scene, Raoul," the count was saying as they rounded a corner.

"I wasn't going to make a scene," Raoul said, somewhat sourly. "She's different—"

"Raoul." The count stopped and turned to his brother, and Erik narrowed his eyes. Of course the boy was talking about Christine; of course the boy was besotted. Once you heard her sing there was no going back… "Why do you think I have never married Sorelli?"

"I—"

"And yet I carry on a perfectly gentlemanly courtship with her, do I not?"

"Philippe—"

"It would not do to have you start a rumor about intentions to marry an Opera singer. Please ensure that Mlle. Daae understands your intentions." The count began to walk on, but Raoul hung back, glaring after his brother.

"My intentions," he stated under his breath, "are my own business!" And he stalked off in the direction of Christine's dormitory, with Erik following silently. It could not be that the boy had intentions of marrying her. It could not be. Erik couldn't allow it! He couldn't allow her to be taken from the stage, away from the glorious career that awaited her, away from… away from him. He couldn't let it happen.

Raoul knocked on her door, and Christine called out that she would be but a moment. Without considering it, Erik threw his voice into her room, telling her that he was waiting for her. A moment later the door swung open. Christine's smile slipped imperceptibly.

"Oh, Raoul. It's you!"

"Who else were you expecting, Christine?" Raoul asked for entrance and Christine admitted him, her eyes confusedly sweeping the corridor for Erik before shaking her head and closing the door behind her. Erik quickly positioned himself above the dormitory. Christine sat by the vanity while Raoul stood in the middle of the room, taking in the scene.

"This is certainly different from your other dressing, isn't it?"

"Yes, well, La Carlotta is still the leading soprano. I only had her dressing room for one night."

"You were truly sublime that night."

Christine blushed. "Thank you." Damn that boy, sharing in his triumph… how dare he!

Raoul brushed off his vest, which had no dust to speak of, and then straightened his already incredibly straight cravat. "Are you busy tonight, Mademoiselle?" Erik would be damned if he allowed that man to take her out again…

Christine smiled, but it was not the ecstatic smile of that first night. "I should really stay in the dormitories, Raoul. I don't want to start a scandal. The other girls—"

"No one will have to know, Christine. I'll have you back wildly early, I promise."

"Oh, I don't know…" She glanced around the room before meeting Raoul's eyes again. "Maybe another night? I'm sorry Raoul, I'm just not feeling like going out."

The viscount nodded, not bothering to hide his sorrow. "All right, Christine." He bowed. "I wish you a good night. I remain always at your service."

"Thank you." Christine smiled and saw him to the door, where he placed a small kiss on her hand before leaving, which made Erik's blood boil. The boy felt that he owned her, did he? That he had every right to that kiss?

Erik dropped himself into the middle of the dormitory. Christine nearly screamed.

"Erik," she said, looking at him and then quickly brushing past him to resume her seat at the mirror. "I thought I heard your voice."

He didn't know what had possessed him to make an appearance, or what he was going to do now. He simply stood behind her, watching her brush out her hair, his dark jacket reflected in the mirror.

"How is your ankle?" He asked.

She shrugged. "It started to bruise. I hope it'll heal soon because we're going to be starting rehearsals again."

Damn. He had been so caught up in this nonsense with her that he had forgotten to send a letter to the managers informing them that Christine would be taking Carlotta's place.

"You know you will not be dancing," he said.

She looked up at him and set her brush down on the table, pulling her hair back into a ribbon.

"What do you mean?"

"You will be singing, of course."

"But Carlotta—"

"Do you really think that I would allow that—that—woman to sing on the stage in your stead?"

"But she has a contract, Erik—"

He waved his hand. "It is no matter. You will sing. This is what you were meant to do."

Christine sighed. She seemed nervous. She gathered her things from the table and slid them under her bed. "Erik, I'm sorry about before, in your home. I was distraught."

He shrugged, uncomfortable with and unused to being apologized to. She traced the top of her coverlet with her fingers.

"You were my first friend in a very long time. I don't want to push you away."

"Christine—" She knew how to play with his heart. She knew so very well how to reach into every crevice of his mind…

She shook her head, cutting him off. "It's just that there's so much I don't want to remember, here in my head. It's like I'm fighting against my own body, trying to get out. I don't—I'd so much rather live in music, than in reality. Can you possibly understand that?"

"Yes." He sat on the bed opposite her, and a small smile crept onto her face.

"You know for some reason I think you do. For some reason I think you really do understand."

_If you only knew, Christine…_ He was finished. It was so clear to him. He looked into her eyes and he understood that he was completely under her spell. There was no one like her in the entire world.

"I am going to Perros next week, to visit my father's grave," she said. "I would be honored if you would accompany me."

He blinked, shocked. "Christine, I can't, I'm sorry—" Yet how he wished to!

She blushed. "No, I'm sorry. How stupid of me. I should have figured you had something better to do."

It was laughable, really. What better thing did she think he had to do? Rattle chains? "As it turns out," he said, "being dead really affords you very little opportunity of things to do. I would give anything to accompany you, believe me. But I cannot leave the confines of the Opera House. An unfortunate consequence of this being the place of my death."

"Oh." Her voice was hushed. "I'm sorry."

Erik brushed it off. "This is my fate," he said. "I wish you the best of luck on your journey. You know I will be here when you return."

She smiled crookedly at him. "I don't want to say that I'm lucky that you died. But I'm glad you're here, Erik."

He wanted to laugh. It was nearly hilarious. So hilarious in fact, that he had to stand so she couldn't see as he began to cry. This, he understood, was the true manifestation of his suffering. This was where anguish began. Such a good, sweet girl… and yet he knew he would do everything in his power to possess her.

**Aurghghgh weird chapter. I don't know how I feel about it. It smells… awfully like a filler! It isn't though, truly it isn't. It has some filler-y sort of stuff in it but it's super important! Erik had to accept his love. I found myself going through all sorts of weird turmoil while writing this chapter. I mean they are both clearly messed up people. This Erik had so many conflicting emotions about her… it was hard to get it all straight. But… I think it came out all right, in the end. What do you guys think?**

**Again, lots of Kay influence here. I own nothing!**

**Please review!**

**~IceCliff**


	7. Possession

**Hmm Chapter seven. I'm very interested to see how this chapter goes for me. Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing! You guys are the best. Okay, here goes nothing! Enjoy! Actually I'm kind of nervous because this poem only has 10 verses but I think this story may have a few more than that… whatever shall I do?**

**Thank you to all my reviewers! They mean so much =)**

"Our little lives are kept in equipoise

By opposite attractions and desires;

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,

And the more noble instinct that aspires."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

Christine began to make it a habit to invite herself to the house on the lake twice daily; once for her music lesson and once for lunch. She stated that she hated taking lunch by herself while all of the other girls whispered about her, and that the only place she wanted to be was with Erik. It was not an offer he could refuse. Erik coached her on all aspects of Faust, as the Opera House was planning on giving it in its entirety. He ran through every aria with her, as well as giving her tips on her acting. For lunch, he had tried to steal an appropriate amount of food from the kitchens, and insisted every day on making something for her. He took delight in introducing her to new wines.

On the first of the month, he was incredibly pleased to find that the managers had indeed left his salary for him in Box Five, and he presented it to Christine at lunch.

"Oh, thank you Erik," she said, smiling. "I don't even know what I would do with this, though. I still have money left over from the first time!"

He shrugged, cherishing her smile. "Store it somewhere safe, so you have it when you need it."

She pushed some food around on her plate, looking up at him from underneath her eyelashes coyly. It made him shiver. Sometimes he was shocked that someone who had gone through so much could still show such unadulterated joy at being alive. It was something he had never mastered.

"I want to know about you, Erik. Can I know?"

"What do you mean?" He asked, wary.

"I don't know. Where did you come from?"

"Rouen. France."

"Rouen," she repeated, swallowing a large gulp of pasta. "And you had siblings?"

He laughed shortly. "Not at all."

"Oh," she said. "Neither did I." She looked around the kitchen before smiling again. "And your mother—she must have been a good cook if you can cook so well yourself—"

"I don't think we should continue this conversation," Erik said, standing to clear her empty salad plate.

"But why not? Why can't I know about you?"

Erik resisted the urge to slam the plates against the sink. "Yes? You want to know? My mother hated me and I ran away from her when I was nine. Is that sufficient?"

Christine shrank back in her chair. "But, how could she—"

"Hate me? Yes, I've often wondered that myself. It's not so surprising, really. I am a monster."

"You couldn't be a monster," she said, looking at him with her bright blue eyes. "I know monsters. You couldn't be one."

"Oh, Christine." Erik laughed bitterly and leaned his arms on the table, leaning his face in close to hers. She sucked in a breath. "All I am to you is a ghost who taught you to sing. You know _nothing_ of what I was when I was alive. _Nothing_. And believe me if you knew, you would not be asking to lunch with me."

"But… you couldn't have been all that bad…" She sounded like a child holding on to her last bit of hope for the world. Truly, that's exactly what she was. He wanted to save her from that disillusionment, that horrible realization… but she needed to know, one day, that the world was dark and evil, and that no one escapes unscathed.

He held up his hands before her eyes. "Do you see this, Christine? You can't even begin to imagine what these hands have orchestrated."

"Surely not—"

"Surely not what? Surely not death? Oh, death is an old friend! You see Christine, when you look like death, you are not afraid of him, not ever."

"What do you mean, look like death?"

"What? I—" He could have shot himself. He could have killed himself all over again. What had possessed him to say something so ridiculous? He had been too caught up in self-loathing, in self-pity… G-d! She was staring at him like he was a zoo animal! "Put it out of your mind, Christine," he said desperately, but she was already standing up, her eyes narrowed.

"It's your mask, isn't it," she said, starting to approach him. "I always thought—"

"I've already told you!" He shouted, trying urgently to distract her. "You will not mention the mask!"

She stepped back, frightened by his voice, and once again she was the small little girl, trying to pretend that monsters didn't exist. He felt immediately remorseful. All he wanted was for her to smile at him…

"I—I'm sorry," she whispered. He nodded, and held out a hand to her, which she took gingerly. He wished he could have the courage to pick it up and kiss it, as the viscount did so easily…

"We'll go to the fire, yes?" He asked, trying to sound as soothing as possible. "We can talk about your father, can't we?"

Christine nodded, and Erik stepped quickly in front of her, hoping that by putting the mask out of her sight she would forget about it momentarily. She sat in her usual seat by the fire as he poked at it, trying to invigorate it once again. She stared into the fire for several moments without saying anything before springing up suddenly.

"I don't want to talk about something depressing. Can you show me over the flat? I've never seen the rest of your house."

Erik nodded warily. He himself hadn't been in too many of the other rooms since he had died, and didn't remember what may or may not be lying around… He led her into the hallway.

"You are already familiar with this room, of course," he said, indicating her bedroom. "Across is a closet, as you may see for yourself." He opened the door briefly. "Then there is the room with the instruments and the Louis-Philippe room, and that is really all—"

"But where is your room?"

"Yes," Erik said hesitantly. "I had a room as well." He gestured towards the end of the hallway. She inched towards the door, looking back when he did not follow.

"Is it—am I allowed to see it?"

Erik shifted uncomfortably. "I cannot enter the room," he said.

She stopped moving. "What do you mean?"

"That—that is where my body was—put. I cannot enter there."

"You mean—your live body is—in there?"

He nodded slowly. She looked nearly devastated.

"Why weren't you given a proper burial?"

He almost laughed. "I was murdered, Christine. And nobody knew and nobody cared. There was no one to give me a burial."

Tears sprang to her eyes. "I can't imagine living in a world where people didn't understand your genius. You're the kindest man I ever met."

Erik stared at a point on the floor, breathing deeply. How wrong she was, and yet… how wonderful to hear admiration in her voice…. "It's not something to worry about, my dear," he said, the endearment slipping from his lips before he could stop it. "Come away from there now. It's almost time you returned, in any case."

She jumped to his side and they spent several more minutes together in silence before he brought her up to the dormitories. She squeezed his hand tightly before she left him and he leaned against a column and watched her go, his pulse going at record speed because the look in her eyes had been so sincere.

* * *

Christine Daae was everywhere. He saw her behind his eyelids, saw her lips, felt the deliciousness of her presence. She hid behind sets and under trap doors, waiting behind every corner, whispering into his ear so softly that he could only barely make out her words. She laughed in the distance of every corridor, her blond hair whipping just out of reach. In his mind she reached for him, caressed him, met his eyes and never, never looked away…

It was madness, he knew it was madness. It was like a sickness, slowly eating away at his soul. But she was so beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful. He couldn't look at the stars anymore, because all he saw was her face, all he heard was her voice in his head… He didn't care if he was dead. He wanted her, craved her; he wanted to run his fingers through her hair, press her close to his chest, stare into her eyes have her tell him that he was worth something… that she loved him…

He began to clutch his hands together in dark hallways, pretending that it was her hand and not his own. Without realizing it he would find himself before her dormitory, watching her bed with peeled eyes until the time when she would finally return and meet him in the washroom. Days were endless until he saw her; nights burned until the next afternoon. He traced the outline of her hair while she slept, imagined one of her pale, soft hands on his neck... it was madness, but he was completely given over to it.

The time they spent together was achingly tortuous. Millions of desires flit through his mind every time he saw her. He wanted by turns to listen to her sweet voice as she rambled about rehearsal forever, to kiss those red lips until they were swollen, to carry her off somewhere far away and make her his own… and yet all he could do was offer his hand when he wanted to lead her somewhere, and try to make her smile. It would have to be enough. He couldn't dare let himself dream that she could ever return any of his affection… it would be too much, when she did not.

One night after a music lesson he asked her if she wanted to take a walk with him around the river.

"Since I cannot take you out to the Bois like a normal gentlemen," he said jokingly, "at least allow me this."

She smiled and took his arm, and he closed his eyes momentarily, to record the sensation in his mind. "I would love it, M. Erik!"

"Much obliged, Mlle. Chrisitne." Erik gave a little bow and Christine laughed. As they walked along the river, Erik tried not to think that she was leaning her head—just ever so slightly—against his arm, but her hair kept brushing his sleeve, and maybe, just maybe—

"Erik, may I ask you something?"

He blinked, trying to lift himself out of his stupor. "What is it, my dear?"

"I don't think you'll like it very much," she said, biting her lip. He found it the most adorable thing he had ever seen her do.

"I will answer anything, dear, and I promise not to be upset." _Do you now? _A sinister voice asked in his mind. _Promising a lot, aren't we?_ Erik pushed those thoughts as far away as possible. Whatever she wanted couldn't be that bad.

"Well, I… I noticed something."

"Yes?"

She pulled his arm just a little bit tighter. "I noticed you stopped wearing your wedding ring," she said in a rush, dropping her head and staring at the ground as she began to pick up pace.

He balked. It seemed so long ago that it had happened; he had forgotten that he had ever decided to discard it. They rounded the first corner of the lake. "I suppose I did," he said shortly. The matter of Emily in his mind was completely closed. He did not want to dwell on it, not when Christine was beside him. "Why does it matter?"

A flush started up her neck and reached the tips of her cheekbones. "I just noticed, that's all."

"Is that what you wanted to ask me?"

"I want to know about her," she whispered, so low that he could hardly hear her. He stopped walking, and Christine immediately began to apologize.

"I shouldn't have brought it up, I know, but I just—I was just so curious—"

"Christine." He didn't know what to say. He didn't even know how to begin. If she even knew what a travesty his marriage had been, she never would dream of asking… "Understand this: I was young and very naïve when I married Emily."

She disentangled her arm from his and he immediately felt the loss of her warmth. "What do you mean by that?"

He sighed, turned from her and knelt before the lake, staring at his wretched reflection, appropriately marred by the passing ripples in the water. "It's not a pleasant story, dear. It's not something you want to know."

"But Erik—"

"Have you ever been so captivated by an idea that you'll do anything to make it a reality?" He traced one long finger along the edges of the water. Memories of her were coming back to him in disconnected sequence.

_ "Erik, you really ought to find yourself a wife." Garnier leaned back in his chair and sipped his brandy. _

_ "Don't be ridiculous, Garnier," he said after a moment, looking up from his drawings. "I have never entertained such ludicrous ideas." It was the worst lie he had ever told, and Garnier knew it._

_ "You know, I might just have the woman for you."_

"All I ever wanted in life, Christine, was to belong to someone, and for someone to belong to me. I thought… I thought that she could… accept what I was. Love me for it." He laughed bitterly.

_"Emily, this is Erik, my business partner."_

_ Emily approached him timidly and Erik felt his heart skip a beat. Garnier hadn't lied—she was beautiful. Her brown hair was swept into an elegant updo, revealing a slender and pale neck._

_ "Erik, meet my sister."_

_ He looked into her eyes, and he knew without a doubt that this would be the woman he would marry._

_ "Enchanted to meet you, Mlle Garnier," he said, feeling that time must stop for them._

_She held out her hand towards him. "What a lovely voice," she said, smiling. _

"We wedded quickly. For both of us it was a sort of way of escaping from the real world. We each had our reasons."

_Erik swept her up into his arms and carried her over the threshold of the small flat he had purchased. She giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck, breathing in deeply. _

_ "Welcome home, Emily." He set her on the ground._

_ "Erik, we are going to be so happy."_

_ He planted a small kiss on her forehead, giddy with the idea that it was his right, that this ring on his finger meant that she was his, forever. She smiled, blushing. _

_ "I never thought this would happen to me." It could have been said by either of them. Perhaps it had. _

"For the first few weeks after the wedding we were fine. Everything was—it was more than I had ever imagined. I was completely infatuated with her; head over heels, at her every beck and call. In turn, she made me feel whole."

_"Erik, is that you?" Emily peeked her head around the corner and Erik hung his coat and hat on the hook, allowing the door to close behind him._

_ "Yes, dear."_

_ She smiled and opened her arms, and he quickly picked her up and nestled his face in her neck._

_ "You're home late," she said, and he shivered. "I missed you."_

_ It was glorious. He set her down and stared at her, arranged some of her stray hairs behind her ear. Someone missed him. It was incredible._

_ "If you tell your brother to start listening to me, you'll never need to miss me again."_

_ Emily burst out laughing. _

_ "Oh, Erik, let's just leave for a bit. Let's take a trip somewhere. Just you and me." _

_ "Anything you want, my dear. It's yours." He kissed the side of her ear, running his fingers down her back. How precious it was, to hold her in his arms._

Erik stared at the water, watching the ripples his fingers made, knowing that these memories were useless, that they would only lead him back to… misery. To the end of his little dream of what could have been…

"Things—changed." He said, and Christine's tear stricken face reflected in the waters below him. "We had to separate."

"I don't understand," she said. He didn't turn to look at her. Her voice was hushed. "What happened?"

He shook his head slowly. "Please accept me at my word, Christine. Some things are… too painful to remember."

"I'm so sorry." She stepped forward to lay a hand on his shoulder, and he took a deep breath, willing himself not to belittle her image of him further by crying in front of her. It was all gone, dead, deep in the past. "I never should have asked."

He took hold of the hand on his shoulder and held it, wanting to press it against his cheek but having no courage to do so. "It doesn't matter now…" _I love _you_, now. You are my everything. I belong to _you."You are more courageous than she ever could have been."

"What do you mean?"

Erik held on to her hand tighter, wishing he hadn't said it but hearing the words whip around their heads anyway. "Nothing." He stood and faced her, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping her tears, taking care not to graze her cheeks with his fingers. "These things are in my past now, Christine. She is as distant from me as my death. They are things I have accepted, not things that I dwell on. It would be good for you not to dwell on them either."

"Of course. I would never…" she tried to cast a weak smile his way. "I'll make you think of something happier! I—I'll tell you about the first time I met a sheep!"

A laugh bubbled to his lips, and he let it out, surprised at her wording and that she could pull him from the edges of despair so quickly. "You 'met' a sheep?"

She slipped her arm through his again, dragging them away from the water, evidently trying to make him forget as fast as possible.

"Yes, I met one for the first time! I was so frightened; my father said that I fainted."

"Fainted! Come, Christine. Because of a sheep?"

"Yes, and don't make fun! I was only five and the sheep tried to eat my dress…"

They walked on, and Christine chattered about her old home in Sweden. Erik only processed half of what she was saying, although the smoothness of her voice was a welcome backdrop for his thoughts. Was it possible—dare he even allow himself to dream? That she could do what Emily never could… that she could become his bride? He looked down upon her blond little head, feeling that no one had ever loved as much as he loved in that moment. His chest swelled and he felt and incredible urge to hug her.

But, what was he thinking? He must have truly gone mad this time… he was dead! He couldn't marry, couldn't carry on like this! …could he? He tightened his grip on Christine's arm. Could a ghost marry a living bride? Was it possible for him to never cross over? Would the universe allow it?

"Oh," Christine said suddenly, as they made their way around the second corner of the lake.

"Was is it?" Erik asked, alarmed that he was not at all aware of what she had just been saying.

"It's late. I hadn't even realized how long I've been here. I should go back, I'm supposed to wake up early tomorrow for rehearsal."

He furrowed his brow. "Surely you mean rehearsal with M. Gabriel—"

"No," Christine said uncertainly. "I'm supposed to be dancing with the choir tomorrow…"

_The fools! _He was going to have to teach them what happened when the ghost's will was not obeyed. "That is ridiculous," Erik said smoothly. "You will not dance tomorrow."

"But—"

"Wait in your dormitory until you are called to sing. Is that clear?"

Christine hesitated for a second. "Yes."

"Good."

He deposited her in the washroom, and set about to write an instructional letter to the managers.

* * *

_Dear Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard_

_ So it is to be war between us? If you still care for peace, here is my ultimatum: _

_ Christine Daae will immediately be reinstated to her place as lead soprano and will sing Margarita in the next production of Faust. When La Carlotta returns you will inform her that her contract is void. You will find the rights to do this in the Opera lease, see clause 63, final paragraph._

_ I remain gentlemen, and etc._

_ Opera Ghost_

Erik was pleased that although Moncharmin threw a great fit at the sight of the letter in an office they had thought they had locked, he allowed Christine to practice with M. Gabriel that day. He was aware that they only planned to permit this to continue until Carlotta returned, but he would make sure that they would follow his orders before Carlotta could be reinstated. Christine sung wonderfully that day, and Erik could tell that even M. Gabriel was impressed by her voice. To Erik's great irritation though, someone else was also in attendance at rehearsal that day.

A loud clapping came from the back of the theatre when M. Gabriel said that Christine was finished for the day.

"Bravo, Christine, Bravo." The viscount approached the stage, still clapping.

Christine squinted into the lights, trying to locate his slim figure.

"Thank you," she said, blushing, shielding her eyes and stepping down from the stage.

Raoul met her at the steps, and took her hand and kissed it. Erik seethed. That kiss—it was the most unforgiveable thing. The boy had _no rights_ to her!

"I feel that it has been ages since I have seen you," Raoul said, taking her other hand and leading her away from the stage.

"Oh Raoul," Christine laughed. "I saw you only the day before yesterday!"

What was this? Was this true? Had he been walking around with his eyes closed? How had he missed this? Erik sifted through his memory, but it was so hazy, between his music, and her sweet smiles… he couldn't place things in the right order anymore.

"Well it isn't nearly enough. I request the privilege of taking you out for lunch today."

Erik felt a hatred rising in him rivaled only by his hatred for the Khanum. The boy _would not _take that pleasure away from him, _would not_ take her out to lunch, when it was Erik who served her lunch every day, Erik who made her voice soar like an angel, _Erik_ who loved her with every fiber of his being.

Christine pulled her hands from him and tried to give Raoul an encouraging smile. Erik stepped away from the shadows, hoping that she would see him, hoping that she would remember him…

"I—I suppose I could go with you, for just this one day."

"Excellent!" Erik's heart sank, and he felt the ache deep in his stomach. "I have my carriage waiting outside." Raoul looped her arm in his and walked quickly through the subscriber's entrance. Erik stared after them, and when Christine turned her head back to look into the theatre, he was sure she had seen him.

_I have my carriage waiting. _I have my carriage waiting, the boy had said, as if he knew that Christine would say yes, as if there was _no reason in the world_ that a girl could possibly _ever, ever_ reject the viscount de Chagny! Heaven forefend such a tragedy! Erik plowed through the second Opera, blasting old sets out of his way, tearing through old costumes, finding satisfaction in ripping each button off of an old dress, each sequin off of those stupid jackets… and she had seen him! And she had left with that boy! What did she think, that Erik would just sit and wait for her, and when she didn't show up, he'd just go about his business? Did she have no heart? How could she do this to him? Maybe he wouldn't come to get her for her lesson tonight. Yes, that should teach her. Then she could know what it felt like to have someone leave you waiting!

Erik threw a dress away from him in a fury and buried his head in his hands. No, no he didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to embrace her, to love her… _it was that stupid boy! _That insolent boy… he would have to deal with him, not her. After all, Christine was still very young, very impressionable. Surely she never would have done something so hurtful, not on her own. It was the pernicious influence of the viscount. He would just have to make sure that the viscount understood into whose domain he was setting foot.

Christine seemed nervous that night when Erik retrieved her, and he wondered if she was going to mention that she had deserted him that afternoon. She asked him for a glass of water and paced about in the kitchen for a while, before asking if she could go to the washroom, where she remained for at least ten minutes. Erik seated himself at the organ, playing over a bit of a piece he enjoyed from The Magic Flute, until he finally heard her emerge from the bedroom. He glanced up at her.

"Are you quite finished, then?" He asked, willing himself not to show any signs of jealousy and failing miserably.

Her smiled slipped a little. "Yes, I'm done. I apologize for taking so much of your time—"

"No matter." He cut her off swiftly. "Let us sing something from the Opera, Christine Daae."

He launched into an aria that he knew she struggled with, the final duet between Gérald and Lakmé from the third act of the opera. She stumbled over the first few words, trying to find her footing as he banged out the chords on the organ. She sang with a regret and a force of emotion that he had never heard from her. She was Lakmé, understanding that Gérald no longer loved her and was going to leave her forever. She was Lakmé, the plan already forming in her mind that she would die honorably rather than live without him. Erik sang Gérald with a kind of strangled heartbreak that he had never seen in the character before. Maybe Gérald really did want to stay with her, but _couldn't, _couldn't because—

Christine suddenly stopped singing, and Erik spun to look at her, punching down on the last chord.

"Why did you stop?" He asked, more harshly than he had intended. "You must keep singing."

There were tears in her eyes.

"Erik," she said. She approached him and he immediately stood, uncomfortable with the unreadable look in her eyes. "I want you to trust me."

"What are you saying?" He took a step back and found himself up against the organ, his pulse picking up at the feeling of being caged in.

"I mean…" She wrung her hands. Her eyes sought his, and he tried to inch himself away from the organ as she continued to step towards him. What was going through her mind? "You won't let me in. Why won't you let me in?" She dashed a tear from her eye and nearly looked crazed. "I care about you, Erik. I want you to trust me." He sucked in a deep breath, a thousand thoughts going through his mind that he could not process, his hands going numb at her words. She took one step closer to him and stopped, her face just inches from his. His heart was racing as he looking into her eyes. Was she… was she going to kiss him?

"Christine…" he whispered.

She smiled through her tears. "Erik, you have to know that you can trust me." She laid her hand against the skin behind his ear, and he closed his eyes, shivering.

"_Christine_…"

"Without this," she said softly, "we'll both be able to be ourselves, and we can finally trust each other." And her fingers curled at his black mask and peeled it from his face.

There was a second in which they stared at each other, and Erik felt frozen in time, watching her eyes widen around the edges and his brain slowly processing the air upon his naked skin.

"_No!"_ The sound ripped from his throat before he knew it was his. "_No!" _He felt an incredible remorse, an incredible regret build up in his system, mourning everything that her foolishness had destroyed, before he saw her take a step away from him. Then he lost it.

He seized each of her arms and pulled her into him, thrusting his face into hers.

"Look!" He roared. "You want to see? See! Feast your eyes, glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at Erik's face!" He felt her trembling beneath him, and it made him even angrier. "You're not _scared_, are you Christine? I haven't _frightened _you, have I? Why, don't you know me? I'm your little ghost Erik! I'm the one who will sit and wait for you while you lunch with a viscount, and you didn't even think to tell me you weren't coming!" He shook her and she tried to close her eyes. "_Look at me!" _He shouted. "I'm quite a good looking fellow, aren't I? _Don't close your eyes! _This is your fate, Christine; this face is your fate! _You must belong to me forever!_"

She tried to break away from him, whimpering, and he gripped her tighter. "_Please_," she whispered.

He laughed maniacally. "What, what do you want? Come, Christine, tell Erik what you want!" He drove her up against a wall, holding her chin tightly and forcing her to look at his face.

"You wanted to know about Emily?" He hissed. "You wanted to know about her? Let me tell you about her, Christine. Let me tell you about my _beloved _little wife. She was beautiful, like you! With pretty blue eyes just like yours! You know what else? She was blind! Oh yes, blind as a bat! You know what she did? She took her hands and felt my face, felt each vein and crack, because that is how blind people see, by feeling! She—your hands!" He twisted his fingers around her tiny palms. "Come, your hands!"

He dragged her fingers across his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose, which collapsed into a hollow cavity above his warped mouth, dragged them hard, pressing her nails into his skin until she drew blood. "She felt each cavity of my face, and then you know what she did, Christine? Of course you know! You'd like to do the same thing! She fell backwards, and she screamed. And she ran from me, _screaming._ My own wife ran away from me and never came back. _She couldn't even see, and she ran from me. _And you know what she said? That she had sold her soul to the devil." Erik laughed. "Me, the devil's child!" He dropped her hands and pressed his fingers on either side of her perfect cheeks.

"Do you have any idea what it is, Christine, to have love, to be loved, and then to have it ripped from you so cruelly?" He shook her. "_Do you have any idea what it's like?_" He suddenly felt tears pressing at the corners of his eyes, his anger spent. Christine's gaze was alarmingly hazy, as if she had fallen into a horrible, waking nightmare. He pulled away from her and bent over himself, feeling more self-pity than he had ever had cause to feel. She had initiated it, but he had ruined them, forever.

The moment he released her she stumbled away from him, running as quickly as she could towards the lake, where he had showed days before a safe way to ascend to the theatre. Erik fell onto the floor, the tears beginning to leak from his eyes. Oh, he knew what he looked like. He knew how horrible it was to behold. He knew he looked like exactly what he was—a man who had been dead for twenty years! A skeleton, left out to rot… and now she would never, never come back to him. Erik pressed his face against the cold, rough stone and lay down on the floor and cried. _Oh, Christine…_

* * *

Erik found himself driven to complete the second act of Don Juan, which came to him like one gigantic, miserable sob, the music flowing through him like a terrible storm of rage and sorrow. It was days later when he finally worked up to courage to go above. He didn't want to know what was there. He was afraid that Christine would be gone, having fled the opera as soon as she could, wanting to put as much distance between her and the horrible monster… Why had he shouted her, harmed her? He was sure she must have bruises all over her arms and her wrists… he was sure she could never forgive him. He wished he had said to her what he had never been able to say to Emily—that a _face_ didn't define a person. Why, there were people without arms, without legs! Why shouldn't there be one without a face? And yet… he had proved his hideousness was thoroughly imprinted into his soul…

He hesitantly stepped onto the landing of the staircase that led to the dormitories. He heard hushed voices speaking outside of one of the doors.

"I want to leave immediately," Christine was whispering to the viscount, who was standing very close to her, nodding.

"Of course, Christine. I would be honored to accompany you."

Erik's heart broke in two. Was this it? Was she really, truly leaving him?

She grabbed onto Raoul's hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Erik saw that there were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was paler than usual.

"When is the next train to Perros?" Raoul asked. Erik blinked. Perros? She had once asked him to go with her… was she not, then, running away?

"Tomorrow afternoon. I've sent notice to the priest of the parish. He will help me pray for my father there. Thank you for coming with me."

"Anything for you, Christine," the viscount said again. Her father, of course. How had Erik forgotten? Did this mean that she would come back to the Opera House? But surely she would never come back to him… No one could love him. If a _blind _woman couldn't love him, a woman who had loved him, seconds before… how could he ever expect the love of someone as flawless as Christine?

"Meet me outside this room tomorrow at 11 o'clock." Christine began to turn away, but Raoul caught her arm and pulled her into a swift embrace, before pressing a kiss to her hand. Erik smashed a fist against the wall, his breathing picking up.

_ Enough of this wallowing. _This boy would not win. He _would not_ lose to this viscount. He would have her. Christine would learn to love him. And if she didn't, he would keep her until she did. It was the only way.

Damn that stupid boy! Erik couldn't stand the way he was always kissing her hand, always touching her, always smiling at her with that stupid, perfect face. No. _No._ He could not let the boy accompany her to Perros.

Erik watched Christine prepare for bed, her eyes dull, as they had been once before he had saved her, rescued her, made her whole… it was _Erik_ she needed, _Erik _she would love.

Tomorrow at eleven, was it? He must not let the boy go with her. _Erik _must be the one to go with her. Erik stole away from her and up to Apollo's Lyre, trying to organize his thoughts. He had heard stories of it, listened to accounts, in superstitious parts of Persia and Russia, but had never really believed… but it had to be possible. He stared into the sky until it turned light, and then paced around the roof, trying to gather as much energy as he could. All of those years of sitting around, writing asinine notes to M. Mercier… this was why he had never expended any of his spiritual energy. This was what he had been waiting for.

He made his way down to the hallway near the dormitories, waiting for the viscount to pass. At precisely ten minutes to eleven, he saw him round a corner into the hallway. Erik closed his eyes, and with a deep breath took off running as fast as he could towards the boy, slamming his body hard into his before the boy even had time to react.

When Erik became conscious again, he was staring out of the eyes of le viscount Raoul de Chagny.

**So. So. I am so excited about this chapter. This is what I have been waiting to write forever. Thank you to everyone who has been reading so far! I hope you love this chapter! You finally got to find out about Emily! Tell me what you think, please!**

** Again, as I've been saying, I don't own half of this. The unmasking scene was mostly influenced by Leroux, and some of the lines come directly from Leroux, like "look! You want to see? See!" a line which I absolutely absolutely love. Man this chapter was so long… I know there were more things I didn't own but I don't know what they are right now… basically, don't sue me!**

** PLEASE PLEASE MAKE ME HAPPY AND REVIEW!**

** ~Ice Cliff**


	8. Perros

**Ooooh chapter 8! So exciting! I love this story so much. Thank you for the reviews! They mean so much, truly. Please, please review if you want me to continue!**

These perturbations, this perpetual jar

Of earthly wants and aspirations high,

Come from the influence of an unseen star

An undiscovered planet in our sky.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik/ Le Viscount Raoul de Chagny_

Erik gingerly stood up, brushing the dust off of his—the _viscount's_—traveling coat. He examined each of his fingers and stretched out each arm as far as it would go, testing the limits of his reach and strength. He slowly extended each of his legs forward and backwards, feeling each of his muscles contract according to his will. _Well._ At least the boy kept his body in good condition.

Erik ran his fingers down his chest, feeling the expensive material of his shirt. He again raised his hands to his eyes. The fingers were shorter than his own, and the skin paler and smoother, upon hands that were altogether smaller and more elegant, no doubt the result of good breeding. He spread his fingers up his neck, feeling the delicate skin there, before dragging it up his chin and across his cheeks.

_Glorious._

Erik's heart—the viscount's? he wasn't sure—skipped a beat. G-d, it was amazing. To have a face! To have a face, young a smooth, with a nose, and regular lips, and, and—Erik wanted to cry. He tried to imprint this feeling in his mind, to make sure that he would never, never forget what this felt like. Incredible. Incredible.

Suddenly a great force pushed on Erik's heart and the body lurched forward, and Erik felt the eyes shoot back into the head. _Steady! _He grasped his head and tried to refocus the eyes. _Now, now, boy. Be calm. _He tried to push the boy as far away from control as possible. This was not his triumph.

"Raoul?" Erik's head shot up at Christine's lovely voice, which sounded much different reverberating in this young fool's head. She was approaching him, her brow furrowed. "I thought you were going to meet me by my room?"

"Oh—" Erik nearly choked on the words. _Was that his voice? _How awful! How truly repugnant! To speak with such a voice—it was an affront to everything Erik had ever lived for.

"Raoul, are you all right?" Christine dusted something from his lapel, and Erik was suddenly focused on the divine smell of her hair.

"Yes, Christine. Yes, I am all right. Shall we?"

She gave him one more once-over, before nodding tiredly.

"Wait." Erik grabbed at her wrist. She turned back to look at him.

"Raoul, if we don't leave now we might miss the train. We really should—"

He smiled, feeling the air upon his cheeks as he did. "I only wanted to give you a proper greeting," he said. And he leaned down over her hand and kissed it. _Magnificent._ He would have her. The boy would lose.

* * *

Erik managed to keep his mouth shut most of the way to the train station as Christine chattered and worried about missing the train. He was still trying to walk in the viscount's body without looking like a complete fool, and was loathe to hear that high pitched squeak come out of his throat again. How did anyone live with any sort of dignity with a voice like that? When they reached the train station, Christine approached the line for the ticket booth, and it occurred to Erik that any respectable gentlemen would offer to pay for him and his lady, but Erik had no idea where the viscount kept any of his accoutrements. Keeping a close eye on Christine, Erik surreptitiously searched each of his pockets. A pocket watch… a monocle… a folded piece of paper… ah! Erik drew out the viscount's money purse and slipped into the line beside Christine. When they reached the booth, Erik stepped swiftly in front of her.

"Two tickets to Perros, please."

"Oh Raoul," Christine said, her voice hushed. "You don't have to—"

"Nonsense," he said. The ticketer passed two tickets under the glass and Erik led Christine towards the track. He had an incredible urge to put an arm around her, to hold her head close against his shoulder, to run his hands through her hair… but he was the viscount, was he not? Erik was torn. He wanted to take advantage of having a real face and smooth hands to be close to her in ways he could never have otherwise imagined, but on the other hand, he wondered if he should act like a complete vagrant, to try to make her despise the boy. Would it work, anyway? He didn't know the boy that well, didn't know his mannerisms. If he did something too boorish, would she start to become suspicious or think that the boy was merely playing a joke? He didn't think that Christine would ever come to the conclusion on her own that Erik had possessed the boy; she was clearly distracted by thoughts of her father. On the other hand, he did not want to do anything to alert her to the fact.

They took a private box on the car and Erik had to restrain himself from singing her to sleep, as she looked so pensive and distressed. Besides, he was sure the boy's singing voice left much to be desired.

"What ails you, Christine?" He asked, as the train began to move out of the station.

She looked up at him, and he was sure he had seen tears in her eyes before she blinked and looked away, out the window.

"There are just many things on my mind, that is all."

Erik hesitated before laying a hand atop her own. "Would you like to tell me about it?"

Christine shrugged, the sun through the trees throwing changing shadows across her pale cheeks. "I think I've done a horrible thing, Raoul."

Erik tried not to flinch. He had to remember that to her, she was the boy. But… did the boy know anything of him? What if she had been telling him things about Erik this whole time? He shuddered. "You could never do something horrible." He said distractedly, trying to decide what the viscount would have said in such an instance. He had only ever heard the boy talk so many times!

Christine sighed. "Oh Raoul, you wouldn't understand."

"Please tell me," he said, surprised by her words. He wondered how close they actually were. It was clear the boy had some sort of romantic intentions, but Erik could not decide if Christine reciprocated or was even aware of them.

She drew her hand away from him and looked at him. He could see her eyes roaming over his face, and it felt incredibly odd to know that she was likely comparing those smooth cheeks to his own ravaged ones.

"There are such awful things in this world," she said after a minute, and Erik's stomach clenched. He had hoped that after a week away from him she would perhaps remember his awful fate with some pity… did she still think him a monster?

"Are there?" he asked faintly.

Christine let out a breath but said nothing, and in that silence he wished nothing more than to hear her voice.

"Why don't you sing something, Christine? Maybe it will calm your nerves."

She turned pale. "I can't sing," she said. "I don't think I can ever sing again."

"What?" His voice left his throat more harshly than he intended. He willed himself to remember with whose voice he spoke.

"I don't know myself when I sing," she said, tracing her finger down the window. "I cannot sing anymore."

"But Christine, you _must_ sing."

She looked at him sharply, and he clamped his mouth shut. "What do you mean?"

"I just mean that your voice is so lovely. Surely you intend to continue as the principal soprano."

She shook her head. "I just told you, I can't sing anymore. Why do you ask? You've never been this interested in my career before."

He tried to look nonchalant. "But why would you not want to sing again?" He thought quickly, trying to pull their childhood connection into the conversation, trying to steer her mind away from anything he did not want her to consider. "After all, your father would have wanted—"

"My father wanted a lot of things," Christine said, her voice strangled. "Many of them did not happen."

"I—I do miss him," he said awkwardly, praying that this was not the wrong thing for the viscount to say.

Christine cast him a sideways glance. "Do you?" She asked. "Don't you… At least I have you to remember with, Raoul." She tried to smile at him, but it faded quickly, and she leaned her head against the pillow and closed her eyes, intending to sleep. Erik felt incredibly uncomfortable with the entire conversation. He was awful at pretending to be the viscount, and he did not like that the last thing she had said had intimated such affection for the boy. He must make sure that when she wakes up he tells her that he has intentions to go away for a long time, perhaps on an arctic expedition, as the boy had had naval training. Perhaps he was even considering proposal to some lady or duchess… anything to drive her away from him, to drive her back to Erik…

* * *

They arrived in Perros and made their way to the Setting Sun. Erik asked and paid for two rooms, and Christine said she wanted to go to church to talk to the Priest there. Erik said he'd be waiting for her in the parlor, but after she left he wandered down the streets of the little town. It was such an odd experience, to walk through streets populated by normal people, having each one of them glace at him and then away, as if he was as normal as a tree. Little children ran past him with no second glances, and young ladies even laughed behind their gloves. Was this what it meant to be a normal man? Erik slowly understood, as he continued to walk, that no matter what plans he had had when alive to make masks that made him look like regular men, he never would have known what it truly meant to be normal. He never would have fit in among Parisian society, never would have had the appropriate social graces, never would have been able to make friends or control his wild emotions.

Was it fair? Was it fair that such a face, something that he never chose, meant that he would never have been normal, not matter what he could have done? He supposed it didn't matter. He wasn't alive anymore, and he had already chosen his way.

And Christine—did she truly hate him? He was terrified and confused about what she had said on the train. He had done this incredibly risky thing just to be close to her… but what if she admitted that she never wanted to see the monster again? Would he continue on with his life, possessing the viscount? He desperately wanted to confront her about it… and at the same time was wildly scared to hear her answer.

He returned to the smoky parlor of the inn and looked surreptitiously to make sure that no one was around before sitting down at the piano for a few minutes of stolen bliss. He found that the viscount's fingers did not give him the range he was used to, but the body responded to him nonetheless, and beautiful melodies swelled inside his head and he lost himself inside the music. A soft clapping came from the back of the room after several minutes and Erik pushed himself forcefully away from the piano. He looked into the shadows but could not see anyone. His heart clenched. G-d, what if it was Christine? If she had heard, she would know for certain—

"Bravo, Monsieur."

Erik looked wildly around him, before his eyes settled on the portly figure of the manager. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

"You play very well," the man said, smiling.

Erik nodded his head, and then slipped up to his room and splashed cold water on his flawless face. He needed to be more careful. He could not risk destroying this whole plan… Suddenly he clenched the side of the sink, a force rising in his chest and causing the body to twitch sideways and then bend backwards. Erik struggled against the boy, loosing sensation in his fingers as they began to claw, of the boy's accord, at his face and eyes, which were quickly losing their vision.

_"No!" _Erik's voice ripped through the throat, sounding strangely deep and torn, while the boy continued to fight for control of his body.

There was knocking at the door and Christine's voice called for Raoul through the wood. The boy reacted strongly to this, clawing at his chest and pushing as hard as he could against Erik's presence. Erik clamped down the muscles in the jaw and stopped breathing, and the boy's hands began wildly clutching at his nose and mouth, but Erik had complete control. The more oxygen starved the body became, the more feeling returned to Erik's fingers, and the more his vision returned. Eventually the boy had lost enough strength that Erik was able to force him down. He straightened his spine and closed his eyes, trying to draw as much power as he could to keep the boy away. He needed to stay strong for at least another day. He didn't want to think about what would happen to him if he let the boy push him out of his body while they were away from the Opera House.

"Raoul, are you all right?"

Erik scampered to the door and threw it open, and Christine looked pale and worried.

"What happened? What took you so long to answer?" She glanced past him into the room as if looking for others.

"I apologize," he said, his voice a bit hoarse. "I was resting and did not hear you."

She nodded. "Well, I am going to the graveyard tomorrow, and I plan to catch an evening train back to Paris. You may accompany me in the afternoon if you like, but I think I should like to have the morning to myself and my father."

Erik nodded. "Have you eaten?" He asked. "Come, we shall go to supper." She took his hand listlessly, but he secretly delighted in being able to use the boy's very words and take her hand. He led her to the small dining area on the first floor, where the manager happily seated them.

"Ah Monsieur," the manager said, smiling, and Erik stiffened and tried to avert his gaze, hoping he would not mention the music.

"Do you know him, monsieur?" Christine asked, looking between them.

Erik swallowed and quickly picked up a menu. "What wines do you have tonight?" He asked loudly. The manager bowed his head and took their order, and Erik let out his breath. He hoped the fool would keep his distance. He reached across the table and took Christine's hand. She looked up at him.

He tried to smile, and then began to deliver the speech he had practiced on the train. "Christine, it has been so great to see you again, after all of this time."

"Yes," she said quietly. She looked down at their entwined hands.

"I haven't told you yet, but I think you should know. I have been appointed a member of the official expedition on board the _Requin, _which is to be sent to the Arctic Circle to search for survivors of the _D'Artois_ expedition. As you know, nothing has been heard of them in three years."

"Oh," Christine nodded, looking out the window. "How exciting, Raoul."

"Yes," he said, glad that she seemed to be taking this very well. "I will be leaving soon."

"Oh." Suddenly she was looking at him with wide eyes. "Sorry, I don't think I heard right—did you say the arctic circle?"

"Yes, my dear."

She clutched his hand a little harder.

"What did you say?"

Erik inwardly cursed himself. He assumed the viscount did not use such endearments. "Nothing—I—yes, yes I will be leaving soon with my ship."

"Leaving." Her voice was very small. "How soon?"

"I'm not sure, I—within the next few months, I'd say…" Damn. He hoped he could be rid of the boy in that time…

"Oh, Raoul." Tears began to fill her eyes. Erik had not expected this, and it made him angry. He pulled his hand away and she blinked at her empty hand. "I'm so frightened by everything. What shall I do without your friendship?"

"Surely you have other friends," he said. _Surely you have Erik._

"I don't know." She shook her head. "I don't know anything anymore."

Erik clutched the ends of the table. "But—" he said tightly, "but there must be someone at the Opera House who cares for you. Someone who—"

"Your entrée, Monsieur." The manager set two plates before them, and Christine tried to smile at him. He bowed, and then made a gesture towards Erik.

"Perhaps you shall play for us later, Monsieur." Erik glared at him, and the manager moved away. Erik felt Christine's eyes on him but tried to concentrate very hard on eating his dinner.

"What did he mean, Raoul?"

"I haven't a clue." He said, focusing on his fork.

"But he said—"

"Maybe he has mistaken me for someone else."

Christine stared at him hard. "It doesn't seem likely, Raoul. We're one of the very few people here tonight."

Erik shrugged and Christine seemed perturbed by his attitude. He ate quickly, thinking that if he could get them away from the manager maybe she would forget about all of this. At least he had been able to tell her he was going away. At least something positive came of this.

They ate in silence, and when Christine was finished she stared out the window and clanked her fork repeatedly against her plate. Ready to strangle someone at the sound, Erik eventually stayed her hand. She slowly turned her head to look at him.

"Do you remember the last time we saw each other?" She asked.

Erik hesitated. He somehow had not thought of what would happen if she wanted to reminisce. He coughed. "I—I suppose."

She had a faraway look on her face. "That was the end of my fairy tale. You weren't there, after. You weren't there when Papa died, when—"

"I'm sorry, Christine."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault that you weren't there. But when I was in the orphanage, I—I used to think of you."

Erik felt a twinge in his heart and didn't know if it was his ache or the viscount's joy. "Yes?" Erik whispered. How could he touch this, this history that they had together?

"Yes. I used to hope you'd come and rescue me, like you rescued my red scarf. But you never did…"

Erik didn't know what to say. He couldn't imagine that the boy, in his position, would have come up with anything brilliant to say, either.

"Christine…"

She had a faint, twisted smile on her face. "I think I loved you, for a very long time."

Erik's heart squeezed. _No. No, no no. Christine, you must be mine!_ It wasn't fair! How could he possibly compete with this?

"It was silly though, wasn't it? To hope that an orphan, a dirty orphan like me, could ever become the wife of a viscount. It was the silly dream of a girl, I guess."

"You're not _dirty,_ Christine." In the midst of everything she was saying, he couldn't believe that he still tried to comfort her. And yet the words hurt so much that all he could do was try to focus on not letting on who he was, staying in character…

She laughed. "Yes, everyone is telling me that now, aren't they? Oh Raoul, I held on to you for so long, but things changed. They had to change."

He coughed. "What do you mean?"

"Things happened to me, Raoul. Life happened to me, in a different way than it happened to you. I'm so much different than I was that last time we saw each other…"

Erik desperately wanted to know what had happened that day.

"And now it doesn't even matter, because you're leaving me again. Leaving me again, when I need you most."

"Need me?" He asked. "Why do you need me, now?"

Christine shook her head. "I can't—I don't think I could tell you. It's too—horrible."

Erik understood that she was talking about him, and he stood, not believing that he could hear another wretched word from her mouth. This anguish was sapping his energy, and he could feel the boy clawing at his mind.

"Maybe we should retire, Christine."

"Retire?" She stood too, with tears in her eyes. "Why won't anyone ever listen to me? Why does everyone want me to go away, to go to sleep, when I start talking about these things? Oh, you're just as bad as he is!" She turned away and fled, and he stood rooted to the spot. She had mentioned him, mentioned Erik, and had not said that he was a monster. Perhaps she had criticized him, for making her sleep, taking her to the dormitories, no doubt upset about that night when she had mentioned her past—but still, she had mentioned him! After standing a second longer, he took off after her, figuring that the only place she would run now was to her father.

* * *

Erik followed Christine on her trek to the cemetery, hiding behind trees and trying to make his step as light as possible, although he was not as good at masking his sounds as he used to be, after having been a ghost for twenty years. She threw open the gate to the cemetery in the pitch black of that moonless night and ran towards her father's grave, which was off to a corner on the left. Erik slithered up one of the paths and hid himself behind a tombstone not far from her. He edged himself down onto the ground and pressed his back against the stone, trying to hear her breathing. He heard the swish of her skirts as she sat before the grave, and her quiet breaths as she cried. How he wanted to hold her…

"Papa," she said. "_Jag saknar dig_." _I miss you._ She continued to talk to him in Swedish, asking him to pray for her, and hoping that he was happy in Heaven. "There is nobody here for me, papa," she said, and her voice shook. Erik clawed at the ground. Did she hate him that much? Surely she must know that Erik was there for her, always!

"I have ruined everything with everyone," she said. "Raoul is leaving, as he should, because he has a wonderful life without me. And Erik—Erik hates me forever."

_Did she not know?_ Erik tried to recall every conversation they had had up until—_that one._ He had never outright told her that he loved her—he wasn't an idiot, didn't want to be rejected, reviled—but… did she not know that he cared for her immensely? That he would do anything for her? Had it not shown? Did she truly not know?

"Oh, papa, it was so horrible. You have no idea." Erik cringed. So she _did_ hate him, after all. Why couldn't she just outright say it and be done with it? Even in talking to her father she was roundabout and confusing! "I don't think I shall ever be able to face him again." She took a deep breath, and Erik tried to control himself, tried to make no noise at all.

"He was so good to me, when no one else was. He helped me find your music again. I don't know how I shall continue on, now that everyone is gone, and nobody will be there for me. Oh Papa… I don't want to live like this any longer. I want to be with you. You know I tried, once before… I hope you won't hate me too much, if I try again? Nobody is coming to save me this time, because nobody cares. Even Mama Valerius will probably be happy that she doesn't need to waste her money on me anymore…"

Erik clenched his fists, and at the same time the boy reared up at him, and the shock of Christine's words made him too weak to fight. He fell over onto the ground, and Christine screamed and stood quickly, brandishing a stick as a weapon, before her eyes landed on his twitching form. She approached him slowly, holding out her stick in front on her.

"Raoul?" She whispered into the night. The boy let out a gargled scream and both of the arms flew backwards as Erik tried to regain control of the body. The boy fought hard, and the eyes popped open and the neck snapped down so far that it strained every muscle and every vein.

"Raoul!" Christine stood several steps away from him, and the boy suddenly stood, his spine bending until it almost snapped, the shoulders misaligned and the arms forced straight out like branches on a tree.

"Are you trying to frighten me?" She screamed. "Stop it, Raoul, stop it!"

The boy took one staggering step towards her, before Erik seized onto the body with all his might and forced it back to the ground, wrestling the hands away from the face and trying to focus on what it felt like to hear her sing, the connection that music brought… he garnered just enough energy to push the boy away, but he could tell that he was extremely weak, and that the boy would not stay dormant for long. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked over at Christine, who was staring at him wild-eyed, her cheeks stained with tears.

"Christine." He reached out to her, but she took a step back. "I'm so sorry."

"What—what happened to you?" She shuddered.

"I—I believe I am ill," he said. It took so much concentration to keep the boy at bay that he could hardly think of an excuse to keep her satisfied.

"Ill?" She asked. "How long have you been here? You—you've been spying on me!"

Erik gingerly tried to stand up. He wanted to talk about what she had said, but even the idea made him weak enough to allow the boy to give him a little push. "I'm terribly sorry," he said. "I wanted to make sure that you were all right."

She stood with her arms crossed. "Oh? And what have you discovered?"

He hesitated, because he did not know if the viscount knew Swedish or not. The boy pushed hard and Erik stumbled, holding a hand to his chest. "I apologize, Christine, but I must take my leave of you."

"_What?"_ She took several threatening steps towards him and pushed the stick into his chest. "After everything you just heard you _are really going to leave?_"

"Christine—" his heart ached for her, but the boy was dangerously close to gaining full control. "I'm so sorry—"

She let out an inhuman scream, and he began to run towards the gate of the cemetery. He heard her collapse onto the ground in sobs, and he was terribly afraid for her safety in getting back to Paris. He hoped that she would hold on long enough to hear his music again, so that he could save her again—again and again, for the rest of her life if need be. He didn't care if she hated him. It didn't matter. It was more important to him that she live than that she love him. It was _imperative_ that she live. Without her… he shuddered.

Tearing back into the inn, Erik penned a very quick letter to Christine, informing her that he had returned to Paris because of his illness and would very much like to see her when she returns. He hoped that was enough to convince her to come back and not to do anything unthinkable in Perros. He reminded himself to sign the viscount's name, and then headed as fast as he could towards the train station. He took the earliest express to Paris that he could get on, and closed his eyes the entire time, trying to focus on having enough energy to keep the boy back until they got to the Opera House. They arrived in Paris very early in the morning, and Erik was sure that the sight of the viscount, with his clothes all disheveled and covered in dust, running through the streets of Paris like his life depended on it would elicit much gossip among the residents of the Fauborg-St. Germain. The Opera loomed above him, several blocks ahead, and Erik willed himself to hold on, willed the boy to stay back, just until he could reach those steps… just one more block…

The boy roared forth at him and Erik fell to the ground, causing a nearby horse to spook and gallop in the other direction. Several people turned their heads. Erik clawed at the ground and tried to drag himself towards the Opera. The boy was taking control of his legs and began kicking out, but Erik focused all of his energy on moving the arms, dragging the body along. He was so close, so close…

His finger touched the outermost step of the Opera, and he closed his eyes and rose out of the body, all of his energy completely spent, having no ability to move from his spot, falling into the very stones of the steps as the Opera absorbed his presence once more, made its hideous claim on his spirit. He remained there, lodged in the steps, for a very long time. He remained when the first subscriber found the viscount lying on the ground, and remained still when the last medic left the scene with the viscount on their gurney. He had no energy still when the day turned to night, and languished beneath the feet of every Parisian who treaded into the Opera Garnier. It was only early that next morning when he saw two very precious feet above him that he finally felt able to move from his spot, and he followed her into the dormitories, so euphoric to see her alive that he understood that he must protect from everyone, even herself. Even him.

**Soooo, the possession! What did you guys think? I wanted this chapter to end much differently but this is the way it happened! I didn't realize Christine was suicidal but apparently she is. Anyway I'd love to know what you guys thought! I had to look up creepy pictures from the exorcist to decide on what sorts of movements the possessed body would make… so I hope you appreciate my sacrifice for you!**

**I have to say that generally speaking I used to dislike Raoul although that is kind of mellowing out. I still sort of hate him, but the truth is that he's not really all that bad. I just can't totally hate him because he really does try to be a good guy here. So for the record, I'm not trying to fop-bash in this chapter. I'm just trying to accurately portray how Erik would have seen him, which was the deal with the whole high-pitched voice thing and any other slur Erik may have made against him. I mean, that's just how a story from Erik's perspective is going to be! But I do like this Raoul character. He's really pretty innocent.**

**Tell me what you think, leave a review!**

**I love you guys forever!**

**~Ice Cliff**


	9. Sing to Bring Down the Chandelier

**Ninth chapter! Wahoo. So I solved my dilemma about what I am going to put in quotes at the beginning when the poem is finished. Yay! Thank you for all of the lovely reviews! **

**Hope you guys love this chapter! ...I suppose I should potentially warn you that there is attempted violence in this chapter. In case it offends anyone. I mean it's not graphic in the least. I'm just letting you know, since it's a sensitive topic.**

**I was so delighted by the reviews of the last chapter! Thank you so much, you guys are great! =)**

"And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud

Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,

Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd

Into the realm of mystery and night,—"

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

News soon made it around the Opera House that the patron le viscount de Chagny had been found unconscious on the steps of the Opera, with no recollection of where he had been the previous night. The viscount was being kept in the Opera infirmary until he was deemed able to be moved. More important to Erik, news also made it to the managers' office that Carlotta was due to return the next day and expected her old role as leading soprano when they opened Faust in a few days. Moncharmin and Richard were understandably distressed. As Erik lay on the ceiling, staring up into the darkness, Richard paced around the room, ranting.

"Count Philippe is extremely angry. He is threatening to sue us. It makes no sense. If the viscount wanted to get drunk and pass out somewhere, why did he have to do it on our steps?"

Moncharmin laid a hand on Richard's shoulder. "Count Philippe has no case to make against us. I'm sure the viscount will eventually be able to account for his actions."

Richard shrugged Moncharmin off his shoulder. "And what if he doesn't? We can't afford to lose their support—what with the ghost costing us all that money, and the new Opera starting soon, we need all the help we can get."

Moncharmin shuddered. "That blasted salary is due soon. Did you read his last letter?"

"Like hell I did," Richard said. "I refuse to look at a single one more of those things."

At this Erik narrowed his eyes and leaned down to get a closer look at them. His letters _would _be obeyed.

Richard gave Moncharmin and accusatory look. "What's with that look on your face? You're not going to tell me that you are truly afraid of this man? A joke is being played on us, Armand, and we must take care!"

"The last letter threatened such horrible consequences—"

"Well we'll just see about that, won't we?" Richard sat down at his desk. "I will not pay another penny to that man and I will not read another letter of his. There are more important letters to be read—have you seen Carlotta's most recent correspondence?"

Erik clenched his jaw. It would seem another letter was in order, one that was much clearer about his intentions.

"Yes." Moncharmin sifted through his papers until he found her letter. "She is returning tomorrow. But the ghost said—"

"I don't care a hang, do you understand? Tell Mercier to inform Mlle. Daae that she will be rejoining the chorus."

Erik stole away from the manager's office with murder on his mind. This would not do. This would not do at all. These fools would understand how to run his theatre, or there would be hell to pay. He moved through the corridors faster than he had in days, rushing towards the dormitories to make sure he got to Christine before Mercier did. He had been watching her very closely since her return from Perros, following her more closely than her shadow from when she woke up in the morning until long after she fell asleep that night. He was too afraid to let her out of his sight for too long. The miserable words she had uttered in the graveyard still echoed in his mind. He knew what it was to feel that you were at the end of your rope, that there was no more hope… he knew how deep and dark that hole was. He could not allow her to fall too far.

At the same time, he was still frightened of a one-on-one encounter with her. Her confession to her father had not reassured him at all that she forgave him for what had happened the last time he had seen her, and he wasn't sure that he had forgiven himself, either. It was utterly reproachable to have laid even a single finger on her… and the memory of his violence, in conjunction with the horrid image of his face, had probably convinced her that he was a monster, never to be associated with again. It was selfish, and it was because of his pride, but he was too afraid to see rejection on her face, too afraid to have it happen to him all over again… it was better that he watch her from above.

There were many whispers floating through the _corps de ballet_ about the viscount and his unfortunate fate, and eventually some of the girls began to whisper about Christine, too. It was well known that she and Raoul had been acquainted, and no one failed to notice how pale and withdrawn Christine had been since her trip to Perros, even more so than usual. Wild stories passed from lips to ears, some of the more tame being that she and Raoul had some sort of drunken fight, and some of the worst being that Christine was pregnant with his child. It was impossible that she had not heard at least some of these rumors, but she showed no emotion at all. She often sat at her dresser in the dormitory and brushed her hair out in long, slow strokes, staring lifelessly into the mirror. Erik felt his heart squeeze every time she did it. It was as if all of his hard work, every bit of life he had breathed into her in the past months was gone, and in its wake, Christine was the walking dead.

That morning she was laying on her bed, her blond hair splayed out beneath her, her eyes closed though Erik knew that she couldn't possibly be tired, after having slept for over twelve hours. Mercier knocked on the door several times and called out for her. She opened her eyes after a second and glanced at the door. She heaved herself off the mattress and took several hesitating steps towards the door. Mercier looked uncomfortable when she finally allowed him in.

"Mlle. Daae, I hope you are well."

She simply looked at him. He shifted his weight and shuffled his foot across the floor.

"The managers have reassigned you to the chorus," he said. She blinked. "La Carlotta is returning, and—"

"I understand," she said softly. Mercier nodded, and began to step away from her.

"Chorus rehearsal meets, as usual, at eleven o'clock, if you recall. I will give you this day off so that you may begin to reacquaint yourself with the music of the chorus."

"Goodbye, M. Mercier." Christine closed the door on him, and then returned to her bed, where she resumed her position of half-sleep. Erik's heart ached for her. He wanted so badly to reach out to her, to enclose her in his arms, make her his own… but _his face… _Suddenly she got up, pulled her hair back in a ribbon, and left the dormitory in a rush. Erik followed her, his heart sinking further when he recognized the path she was taking.

A slim nurse opened the door to the infirmary after Christine knocked several times.

"Yes?"

"I'd like to see le viscount de Chagny, please."

The nurse looked her up and down. "I don't believe he is taking visitors, Mlle."

"Tell him little lotte is looking for him," Christine said. Erik had not thought about what would happen if Christine and the boy talked so soon after what had happened… what if he remembered those last moments before Erik had possessed him? What if he remembered even a part of what had happened?

The nurse returned and admitted Christine, although her eyebrow was arched high as she looked down her nose at her.

"You may have a few minutes with him," she said. "The viscount needs his rest."

Christine nodded, and approached the bed where the boy lay, his eyes closed and his cheeks incredibly pale. Christine sank into a chair beside him and sighed, burying her face in her pretty little hands.

Raoul gave a low whimper and Christine looked up at him. She carefully touched his arm, and he opened one of his eyes.

"Christine?" He asked in a whisper.

She clutched at his hand. "Raoul," she said. "Are you all right?"

He blinked at her, and Erik couldn't hold down his apprehension. What was going through the boy's mind as he narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his forehead?

"I don't remember anything," he said. "I feel like I've been through hell and back."

"Raoul," Christine said. "You were with me in Perros. Do you remember that?"

He looked at her as through a long tunnel. "Was I? Perros?"

"Yes." She released his hand. "We were supposed to stay for the night but you left early. You said you were ill."

He shook his head. "I don't remember anything. I remember telling you I would meet you outside of your room at eleven. I can't remember anything after that."

Erik let out a slow breath. Hopefully the boy never _would_ remember anything.

"I don't understand, Raoul. You seemed fine until later that night… why did you come if you were ill? Why didn't you mention it before we left?"

Raoul let out a low groan. "I don't know what to say to you, Christine. I didn't think I was ill. I can't recall being ill." He reached over for her hand and squeezed it. "Believe me, I wish I could remember, for you."

Erik narrowed his eyes at this show of affection. Christine pulled her hand away. "I'm sorry you are not feeling well," she said, and she began to stand.

"Wait—Christine, are you angry with me?"

She stood over him. "No, Raoul. Why should I be angry?"

"I don't know," he snapped, and then winced at the energy it took. "Did I say something, do something wrong? I apologize for it, whatever it was. Clearly I was not myself."

Christine shook her head. "It is nothing. It was simply me being silly, that is all. I hope you will get better soon. I should like to say farewell to you before you depart."

Raoul furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, but Christine had already begun to walk away quickly, and the boy fell against the pillows, staring after her. Erik followed her back to the dormitories, where she brushed out her hair and then went to sleep, smack in the middle of the afternoon, having eaten nothing all day. After making sure she was solidly asleep, he left to steal a dish from the cafeteria and then returned to set it on the table beside her. He hummed the softest lullaby and just barely stroked the edge of her cheek. His hand followed the outline of her hair, and he grasped the end of one of her curls. He pressed his lips to her hair, feeling the soft pressure, smelling the light scent.

"I love you, Christine," he murmured, and she stirred. He stepped back quickly. She opened one of her eyes but Erik was sure that all she might have seen was a flash of shadow. She looked around the room tiredly, before seeing the tray of food. She blinked at it and then set her head down again and closed her eyes. He sighed. He fetched some parchment and began to compose his letter to the managers from his perch above her. He would not leave her, not ever.

* * *

When the next morning came, Christine danced listlessly in the chorus, and Erik made frequent trips between the theatre and the managers' office. His letter had been met with much consternation, and had been thrown to the side when Carlotta made her grand entrance. They showered attention upon her and promised that she would play a magnificent Margarita, and for the life of him Erik could not understand why. The diva was many seasons past her prime. What could possibly possess them to wish to keep her, and to wish to silence such glorious talent as Christine's?

He needed to do something that would make them understand that Carlotta would certainly not be singing Margarita. He could kill someone, but he didn't really feel like expending the effort. On the other hand, it seemed that simple threats were not enough to convince the managers. As he followed the entourage towards the stage, where Carlotta would be practicing the jewel song, he tried to concoct a plan that would be swift and effective. He hid himself in the shadows of Box Five and fixated his gaze on Christine, as she and the other girls were shooed from the stage to make room for Carlotta.

She began the aria, and Erik closed his eyes, imagining Christine's pure sweet voice instead of Carlotta's shrill embellishments. As she marched about the stage, Erik became more and more agitated. It was absurd, really, that such a woman could even think to take Christine's place. That ridiculous little feather on her hat kept bobbing up and down as she sang, and it reminded Erik of the continuously bulging throat of a frog as it croaked… and he began to smile. He moved towards the stage, keeping himself hidden in the shadows, trying to plan his next move. No one would be able to hear him of course, no one except Christine. But everyone would be able to hear Carlotta.

He dropped down into the cellars beneath and hurried towards the trap doors beneath the stage. He didn't know why he hadn't been taking advantage of this ability sooner. Summoning up of all his energy, he launched himself through the floor and directly into Carlotta, who stumbled and nearly fell onto the stage. Erik shook his head quickly. All he needed was a few seconds within this wretched body… He stood, carrying an incredibly unfamiliar amount of weight on his chest with him, and belted out the previous line of the song, glad to hear that her voice sounded a smidgeon better when someone who knew what he was doing was controlling it… he could have been possessing her all of these years… but now his only purpose was to make room for Christine.

Looking out of Carlotta's eyes, he took a deep breath, focused his gaze on the managers, and let out the loudest "co-ack" they had ever heard. The entire theater fell into silence, and he bellowed out a croak once more, before dropping swiftly out of her body and into the shadows on the stage. Carlotta looked incredibly confused, and she glanced about between all of the people looking at her.

"Madame," M. Mercier began hesitatingly. "Perhaps you should take a break."

"A break?" She looked to her maid, who was covering her mouth with her hands in shock. "What is going on?"

The managers gave each other meaningful looks before leading her off the stage, where the ballet rats had begun to whisper behind their props. M. Mercier sighed and launched the chorus into a section from the first scene. Erik dropped a note in the managers' office, assuring them that they could count on such a performance during tomorrow's opening night if they dared cast Carlotta as Margarita. With that, he was sure that they would heed his word. They had to have enough sense to do that.

* * *

Erik busied himself with watching over Christine that afternoon, and when M. Mercier knocked on her door, he smiled, knowing that he had won.

"Yes, M. Mercier?" Christine opened the door for him just a crack.

"Mlle. Daae, you will have to attend rehearsal with me this evening."

"Whatever for?"

"The managers have said that you may need to sing Margarita tomorrow."

Christine blinked, and Erik frowned, not liking the way he had phrased that statement. M. Mercier left soon after, and Christine sat at her mirror and brushed out her hair, slowly. She remained like that for some time, and Erik tried to remember if he had seen her eat anything that day. Her skin as becoming quite sallow and he was concerned that she would not have enough strength for a fresh triumph tomorrow evening. She only rose for her chair when it was time to meet M. Mercier, and Erik did not follow her to the stage, feeling confident that she would be safe from harming herself in Mercier's presence. Instead, he went to check on the health of viscount, who he found to be fast asleep. A bit of the boy's natural color had returned, but he heard the nurses say that he still might not be released until the following day. Erik composed a final threatening letter to the managers and dropped it into their office before returning to the theatre, where Christine had just finished with Mercier, who was packing up his music.

Erik followed her to her room and watched as she prepared to sleep, pleasantly surprised that his plans seemed to be going along without a hitch. He hoped that tomorrow night Christine would remember what it felt like to live.

* * *

Erik only began to worry when it was mid afternoon and Christine was not in her dressing room, but still sitting in front of the mirror, brushing out her hair. Why was she not getting laced into Margarita's first dress? Why was she not warming up her voice? He launched himself across the Opera, hunting for the managers, who were huddled in conversation with Mercier in the center of the theatre. He dipped his head down to hear what they were saying.

"Refuses to sing, you say?" Moncharmin asked.

Mercier nodded. "She told me in rehearsal last night that she could not perform."

"Curious business!" Richard said. "All that trouble to get her to sing and the girl won't even do it!"

Erik couldn't believe what he was hearing. There was no way that she had—it couldn't be— He cursed himself for not having stayed for her rehearsal with Mercier. What could she possibly have said to him?

"Well if Mlle. Daae won't sing then the ghost can't blame us for putting on Carlotta—"

Erik charged out of the theatre, his heart suddenly filled with fear. She must be much more far gone than he had originally thought if she was refusing to sing, refusing to allow herself to feel that soaring joy. He skidded into the shadows of the dormitory, and his insides turned to ice. She wasn't there.

He looked wildly around the room, searched ever corner, hoping that maybe she was just being ridiculous, just hiding somewhere, but she was nowhere to be found. He ran through the corridors surrounding the dormitories, not caring if anyone saw him, looking for a flash of blond hair. He looked in every single dressing room, every single washroom, and when he did not find her, he began to panic. _What if she—what if—no, no, no! Christine!_

He was so stupid! How could he have left her alone, even for a second? If she had left the Opera House, he had no way to protect her, none at all! Fear began its choking ascent up his throat as he ran up to the roof, half hoping that maybe she had decided to throw herself off the edge, and that he could catch her, but her slim form was nowhere to be found. He racked his brain, his thoughts flying faster than he could process them. He burst through the door to the roof and suddenly Nadir was standing before him, blocking his path forward. He didn't even have time to think that he could just slip through the floor, and instead stared dumbfounded at the seer.

"Erik," Nadir said. "I need to tell you about Christine."

Erik seized him by the arms. "Have you seen her?" He shouted. "Where is she? Is she all right?"

Nadir raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I don't know—" Erik threw Nadir away from him in frustration and ignored the man's cries as he continued his frenzied search. Ah, the infirmary! Perhaps she had decided to visit the boy? He dropped into the center of the room, but found the boy by himself, staring out of a window. _G-ddammit! _Erik wanted to pull his hair out, wanting to kill everyone in his sight. _Where was she?_

There was commotion below him as he searched every level and looked in every room he could, with ballet rats and singers beginning their final warm-ups for the performance. Erik couldn't be bothered to think about the opening night, and in fact he did not care at all. The only thing that mattered was finding Christine, and finding her alive. He tore through the theatre as subscribers began to arrive, feeling more and more desperate by the minute. She had to be somewhere. She had to be.

"Christine!" He called, his voice frantic. "Christine!" His pride be damned, her hatred be damned. He had to find her. Even if she was going to reject him, he had to find her. He found that he had made a circle around the residential areas of the Opera, and he paused to think. The only place he had not yet searched was the underground, but why would she ever go down there, when she knew that Erik was down there? No, he must have missed something, must have missed some nook or cranny… he slipped into the dormitory once again, thinking maybe he must have missed some clue, and then stopped short. There she was, sitting at the mirror, brushing out her hair. Erik scrutinized her form, glad to see that she was indeed alive, and that this was not her ghost.

He circled around her in the shadows, trying to guess where she had been. She was still wearing her same clothes from that morning. Erik yearned to reach out and touch her, but he did not know what he could possibly say. He was so glad to just see her, to know that her heart still beat… But why was she still wearing those clothes? If she was alive and well, why had she refused to sing? He looked more closely at her, trying not to become angry.

But she was throwing his gift away! Why wasn't she singing? She didn't look like she was planning on performing at all, not even in the chorus. What was going on in her head? She set down her brush, and several ballet rats came running into the room.

"Christine," one of them exclaimed, as she rushed to pin a forgotten bow into her friend's hair. "Why aren't you ready to perform?"

Christine stood and tied her hair back before shrugging. "I'll come now," she said, and followed them out of the room. They ran ahead of her but she walked slowly towards the theatre, running her fingers along the sides of the walls, still not dressed in any costume. Erik felt a great sense of foreboding, and decided that enough was enough. He reached out a hand for her shoulder, and found himself suddenly encased in the shadows. He struggled against the hands that held him, but Christine had rounded a corner before he could even cry out to her.

"Erik, I need to talk to you-"

Erik rounded on the Persian with his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

"You fool! You don't know what you are doing!"

Erik broke free of the Persian and ran after Christine, who he could no longer locate. He cursed Nadir in a thousand languages in his head. The curtain opened on the first act and Erik was scanning every shadow in the theatre, but to no avail. Carlotta's shrill voice filled the room, and Erik moved along the sides of the boxes, real terror hedged in his heart. The look in her eyes had been so dead…

He followed the shadows along the curtains in the boxes and gazed up into each crevice in the walls, knowing that she could not possibly fit there but still hoping against hope that somehow she was—what was that?

Erik broke away from the wall and stared straight up into the chandelier, where he had seen a flash of light.

"Christine?" He knew she wouldn't be able to hear him over the noise that Carlotta was making, but he called nonetheless. "Christine, where are you?" He continued to scrutinize the movements of the chandelier, trying to decide if they were natural or not. Ah, there! He saw her tiny form reflected in one of the millions of crystals. And as soon as he saw it, his heart dropped into his stomach.

"Christine!" The only reason she could possibly be up there was something more horrible than he cared to imagine. There were a thousand different ways that she could kill herself up there—he charged through the shadows as quickly as he could. Christine stood above the chandelier, looking down at the audience, her pale face thrown into high relief in the dark room, and the glittering hilt of a knife clutched tightly in her hand. Erik's heart jolted.

"Christine," he whispered. She whipped her head around and looked about the room wildly.

"Who's there?" She called.

He emerged from the shadows slowly, not wanting to frighten her. He held his hands out before him.

"Christine," he said. "Give me the knife."

Her eyes widened at the sight of him.

"What are you doing here?" She screamed, and tears began to lodge in her eyes. Erik winced. He knew that he had been a monster, knew that he had scared her, but he had not thought—

"I don't want you here!" She said, brandishing the knife in a way that made him nervous. He took another step towards her. "I don't want anybody here! Nobody wants me!"

"Christine, it is going to be all right."

She laughed. "No, Erik, no it isn't! Nobody wants me, and I don't want anybody. Leave me alone! You were so good at it before!"

Erik felt the jab but continued towards her nonetheless. "Listen to me, Christine."

"No!" She held the knife up to her throat, and Erik stopped, his heart pounding wildly in his ears. "No, I'm done listening. You left me when I needed you. No! Tonight, everything ends!"

Carlotta let out a huge bellowing shriek below them and Christine dashed a tear from her eye.

"I thought you were my friend, Erik," she said.

Erik stared at her in confusion. _Friend? She thought—what? _This was entirely different than what he had heard her say in the graveyard… G-d, had he misunderstood everything? Was he that great of a blind fool?

She gave him a bitter smile. "It doesn't matter anymore, none of it matters. You and Raoul will go away, and I—I shall go away too!" And she turned the knife in on herself.

"_No!" _Erik lunged at her and pulled the metal away before it could graze her flesh. She struggled with him, her arms flailing and her legs kicking, and he tried to wrest the knife away from her without having her trip and fall from the ceiling and without dropping the knife on some poor subscriber's head. She began to punch at him wildly, and he tried to wrestle her to the ground. She grabbed hold of the knife once more and made a sweeping arc around his head towards her chest, but Erik pulled her body away, and she tripped and flipped over onto her stomach, her arm coming down and slicing one of the counterweights for the chandelier. The knife lodged itself in the wood beneath, and Erik had just enough time to pull her towards him before the entire floor below them began to shake. Christine was in shock, staring with uncomprehending eyes as the crystals began to fall away from her, and the cacophonous sound of terrified screams filled the theatre below.

Erik wrapped his arms around her and dragged her onto the ground floor, relief filling his heart like a waterfall, and swearing to never let her go ever again. He pulled her closer to him, stroking the hair out of her face and taking in her scent, so _alive,_ and so sweet…

"_Christine," _he whispered.

She looked up at him, but her eyes were glazed over and confused, much as they had been after she had taken off his mask. She was going into shock.

People swarmed around them, running from the broken shards of the chandelier, screaming for their loved ones. No one seemed to notice the two of them in their embrace among all the chaos, and Erik held her even closer. He would protect her from all of these people, from all of this world. As the theatre started to clear out, Erik could see that the chandelier had crushed several rows of seats. He inched Christine along the edges of the theatre, not wanting her to inhale any fumes, and hoping to bring her down to the house on the lake, where he could take care of her. But as he watched, a small flicker of light began to rise from the chandelier. First he was afraid that the theatre was about to catch fire, but then he realized that the light was beginning to take a shape. He stopped, and Christine turned to look. A woman had fully formed in front of them.

"Where do I go now?" She asked. Erik had never seen another ghost before. He mouthed at her incoherently for a second before she turned her gaze towards Christine.

"Can you help me?"

Christine continued to gaze at the chandelier.

"Christine." He nudged her, and she looked at him. "You need to help her."

She blinked. "Help who?" Her voice was hoarse.

Erik gestured at the woman. "You need to cross her over."

Christine refocused her gaze onto the woman and shrieked, and fell back against Erik's restraining arms. The woman reached out towards her.

"What—what is that?" Christine asked in a trembling voice.

"Can you help me?" The ghost asked. Her form glimmered.

Christine glanced wildly between Erik and the woman. Erik pushed her closer to the woman. "The ghost, Christine. You need to tell her how to cross over."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Christine sobbed and tried to press her face into Erik's chest.

"Christine—" Erik pulled her closer. Why wasn't she helping this ghost? Wasn't that her job? Some sort of innate ability she had?

"I'm scared, Erik," Christine whispered into his evening coat.

"She just wants to leave," he said, as the ghost continued to approach them. Christine eyed the woman with doe-like terror, grasping her hands tighter around Erik's back.

"Keep away from me," she said shakily. "Keep away from me!" The ghost reached a hand towards Christine's shoulder, and Christine screamed. What was she doing? Why wasn't she treating this ghost with all the civility with which she had first treated Erik?

"Let me go, let me go!" She pushed Erik away from her and he tried to catch her, but the ghostly woman latched on first, and as she tried to speak, Christine's eyes fogged over and she fainted away onto the floor. Shocked, Erik moved swiftly to catch her as the ghost stood above them. He swept a blond lock out of her face. Why had she fainted this time, when with him she had hardly seemed to care that he was dead?

"Oh, my Christine," he whispered. The woman stared at them.

"Why didn't she help me?" She asked. Erik looked up at her and was suddenly speechless as thoughts began to form in his mind.

"I—I don't—" He felt like the ocean was roaring in his ears. Something was wrong, something didn't make sense…

"It was as though she couldn't even hear me!"

Erik swallowed, and he looked down at Christine's pale form, stroking her cheek. _As though she couldn't even hear me… _Maybe he had completely lost his mind, after all. It just couldn't be. Christine was either a seer, or she wasn't, there was no in between… _But then why hadn't she heard the woman? _His dead heart began pounding wildly in his ears.

"It was like I didn't even exist," the woman said. Erik heard a soft voice behind him, and he turned to watch numbly as Nadir guided the woman towards her own light, Christine's weight slowly settling in his arms. When the ghost was gone, Nadir simply looked at him.

The world was falling out from beneath him. "She is not a seer," he said.

Nadir shook his head. "No, she is not."

They stared at each other. Erik felt like he was swimming in amber, caught in something too thick to keep his head up, not able to breathe… he clutched onto Christine's hand to try to balance his mind.

"How can she hear me?" He asked.

"She was meant to hear you. She was always meant to hear you."

"What does it mean?" Erik whispered. He stared into her closed eyes.

Nadir rested a hand on Erik's shoulder, and Erik could not look up at him, could only continue to stare into Christine's immobile face.

"You died so that you could save her," Nadir said. "She is the reason you were born. You cannot move on until you have saved her."

**Yes. That's the end of that, I suppose. I've been waiting for this moment for a long time! Tell me what you think! The end line was inspired by and is a loose paraphrase of Erik's line in Charles Dance's version of poto—"****I was born to live, if one can call this living, down here. But I've never known quite why. I was born so she could save me. That's what she's done! She's the reason I was born... I love her, Gerard.****"**

**I don't think I love this chapter that much but it was certainly important, so… actually I strongly dislike this chapter. There is something off about it, especially the end, which I rewrote like four times, at least. I hope you like it though… let me know..? Gah I really don't like this chapter… sigh.**

**So Erik was basically being a huge coward, too afraid to talk to her because he didn't want her to hate him… I hope that was logical. Didn't turn out so well for him, but most things don't turn out well for Erik so no surprises there… You know recently I was stalking some poto forum and found a line where someone said that e/c shipping sort of misses the point because it condones Erik's sometimes messed up and dark and controlling and obsessive (and whatever else you want to call it) love… but I do think they missed the point that eventually he is "redeemed," so to speak, by loving Christine. I mean I don't deny that Leroux Erik is not the type of guy I'd like to run into on the street, but… I will still always ship E/C, because there is something so beautiful about their relationship. I think there is lots of good in our crazed musical genius of KayLeroux Erik… after all didn't he say that Erik had a heart that could have held the empire of the world? **

**And I was watching today the youtube video of Susan Boyle and for some reason it just reminded me of Erik… and what Erik might have become if he had gotten the chance… anyway I'm totally ranting now but point is, let's remember Erik and not judge people on the way they look… and also let's not judge anybody based on the type of Erik they like (I also saw a rant about this on a poto forum). I mean, I love me some sexy smoldering Eriks with broad shoulders and half masks and dangerous alluring mystery… and I also love my sweet and sad Erik, and my dark Eriks, and my crazed Leroux morbid ones, and my crazed LerouxKay musical genius ones… anyway let's be a nice open community that accepts all Eriks. Yayy for my long rant! Ending point: poto is awesome. Also feel free to respond to my rant in the reviews if you like. **

**Please review!**

**Love,**

**Ice Cliff **


	10. Little Lotte, Let Her Mind Wander

**Thank you for your reviews! So we begin chapter 10! So exciting! And also the end of the poem! Anyway, I hope you guys love this chapter!**

"So from the world of spirits there descends

A bridge of light, connecting it with this,

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,

Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss."

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Haunted Houses_

_Erik_

Erik stood solemnly with Christine in his arms and took her away from the theatre, too numbed by the events of the evening and by Nadir's words to even consider that someone might see them as they descended into the cellars. Silence had filled the room as Nadir had continue to stare at him, explaining what it all meant, but Erik heard none of it. He saw Nadir's lips move and he felt Christine's short breaths, but his mind was completely detached. He moved as though through a tunnel, heard noises as though from miles away, and saw things with impaired vision. He staggered into the house on the lake and deposited Christine onto her bed before sinking onto the floor beside her.

_She was meant to hear you. She was always meant to hear you. _And she was so beautiful, so beautiful, as if she had been dead. Lying there, sleeping soundly on the bed, she was the most angelic thing Erik had ever seen. And this creature… she was meant to hear him? Meant… for him? It seemed impossible.

This little blond Swede—a girl he had almost passed over during rehearsal, one who had been hardly remarkable at all, who had distinguished herself not all until Erik had given her his music… this girl, she was what tethered him to the earth, what forced him to remain all these many years here in this Opera House… This beautiful, vivacious, generous girl… and yet one who was deeply depressed, lost in the bowels of her own darkness, caught in her own web of defeat… one who had wanted to take her own life, not a few hours before…

_You died so that you could save her._

He hadn't died as much as he had been killed, something which felt totally different… and killed because of what he couldn't help. Could it be that it was all meant to happen… for her? What could it mean?

_She is the reason you were born_.

His life had been a travesty as soon as it started. Could it be enough to say that it had all been worth it… for her? Did he have to be born with such a face, in order to be born for her?

_You cannot move on until you have saved her._

Was fate playing one final, awful trick on him? How could he save her, when he, himself, had succumbed to darkness in life, when he himself was ugly and hideous and despised, when all he wanted was to possess her and make her his own and win her over to his own darkness… how could he save her? She needed light, needed love and normalcy and happiness… all he could offer was music. He could offer passion, but it was a passion that burned, and not because it was struck by fire from heaven. It must be a sin, all of it, everything he wanted for her… and if he wanted to save her soul, if he truly loved her… mustn't he protect her from all of this, and let her go and be free of him?

If he saved her, he would be able to cross over. And yet… Erik couldn't bear the thought. There would never be anyone else like her, not in any life he lived after this. There would never be someone whose very soul was tethered to his own, someone who truly _belonged_ to him. How could he leave her? How could he cross over? Would he have a choice? If he didn't want to cross, would he be forced to? How much damage would it do to her soul to be haunted by a ghost for the rest of her life?

He couldn't let go of her. He wouldn't. He needed her. He needed to belong to someone.

Christine stirred, and Erik quickly stood and backed away from her. Had he really just been sitting before her contemplating putting her soul in danger? When she was so very alive and he was so very dead? He edged along the side of the wall, wondering if she would try to hurt herself if he left her alone now, trying to decide if it was best to just melt through the wall and far away from her…

Christine opened her eyes with a little moan of pain, and Erik watched silently as she brought a hand to her forehead and pressed where she must have been sore. She blinked several times into the darkened light of the room before sitting up a little and looking around. She cast her gaze about wildly for a moment before resting on him.

They stared at each other, and all Erik could think was that she belonged to him—or he belonged to her—either way. They were bonded.

"Erik." Her voice was low and scratchy.

Erik stood locked against the wall, unable to speak. G-d, this creature, this girl… and he was going to own her soul and she wouldn't even know that he had condemned her to hell…

Christine unfolded herself from the sheets, stood, and steadily walked towards him. He pressed himself as far into the wall as possible without disappearing. She continued until her tiny forehead was directly beneath his nose, and she raised her head to look into his eyes. He inhaled the scent of her hair.

"I will not thank you for saving my life," she said.

Erik clutched at her shoulders at the very thought of what she had meant to do.

"Christine," he breathed. "You must never try to do anything like that again."

She scoffed. "Yes? And what if I do?"

"I shan't let you. Erik will always be there to protect you."

"Oh? And if I leave the grounds of the Opera House?"

He squeezed her shoulders in sudden fear. "Christine, you cannot."

She raised her chin. "What if I do?"

He stared into her eyes. "Then—I shall keep you down here."

She glared at him, and then stole away from him to lean against the doorpost. Erik turned to face her, missing the scent of her hair beneath him.

"Why would you even make the effort?" She asked after a moment.

"Christine—" Erik almost felt like laughing, although it was completely inappropriate. How shocking that she truly did not understand the depths of his feelings. "If you were to die, the entire world must also lie down and disappear with you. Without you there is nothing."

She stared at him, clutching her hands together absentmindedly at his sides, and as her eyes began to roam away from his he knew she was looking at his mask. He refrained from closing his eyes. He needed to face this, to face whatever was coming next…

"Erik," she began uncertainly, and then stopped.

"Yes, my dear."

Christine locked eyes with him, and his heart jumped. Tears began to obscure the beautiful blue. "Erik, do you know what it is like to want to die?" She buried her face in her hands and began to sob, her body crumpling in on itself as she leaned heavily against the wall. "Oh, do you know? Do you know what it is to be empty?"

"Yes." And it was all he needed to say in that moment, before he enveloped her in his arms.

* * *

Christine returned to sleep not very long after she began crying, and Erik ventured upstairs to see how badly the damage of the chandelier was going to affect the Opera. The managers were of course in great consternation, and the Opera was going to have to be closed for at least the next two weeks. Erik considered this positive news. Two weeks might be enough time to get Christine back on her feet again and coax her into the limelight once more.

He prepared a meal for her when he returned and then occupied himself by tidying up things that had never been dirty and organizing books that did not need organizing. Christine slept for many hours, and eventually Erik slipped into a comatose state of meditation on a chair in the Louis Philippe room. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Christine intoned his name in the hallway.

"I ate," she said, standing uncomfortably by the doorway. "Thank you for preparing it. I suppose you were also the one who left those meals beside my bed last week?"

He nodded slowly and Christine sighed. "I should have known. I don't know why I thought any of those girls would even give me a second thought." She entered the room and gingerly placed herself beside the fire, looking at him.

Erik remained silent. What should he do? Should he tell her his plan, tell her that he would rather endanger her soul than be without her?

Christine cleared her throat. "Was it a very bad accident?" She asked quietly.

He blinked, and she blushed. "What?"

"Your—the—such a face," she said. Erik clenched his fingers as his stomach tightened. He had hoped that maybe she would have forgotten, that maybe she had been too dazed to remember anything… no. The look on her face made it clear that she remembered _everything._

"No."

"You were—born that way?"

The hesitation in her voice made him cringe with anger. "Yes, I was born this way. What else would you like to know?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Where the scars on my back came from? Why my arms are laced with cuts? Why there is a _bullet wound_ in my chest?"

Christine's face crumpled and it made him even angrier. He stood from his chair and threw up his arms.

"What! What is it that you want from me, Christine? Don't give me your pity, I don't want it!"

"I don't offer you pity, Erik," she said softly. He dropped his arms and instead crossed them over his chest.

"You seemed to pity _yourself_ that night," he said bitterly, "caught in the _monster's_ touch, having to look at his _awful_ face."

Christine regarded him for a moment before coming to stand beside him. He took a hesitating step away from him.

"I'm sorry I violated your trust," she said. He simply shrugged. He didn't want to let go of his anger. Without it, he was too vulnerable to her…

"It's true, Erik," she said. "You are very ugly. You might just be the ugliest person I've ever seen."

He balked. Had anyone—had anyone ever had to gall to tell him such a thing to his face? Certainly not if they wanted to live! A thousand obscenities flitted through his mind, things he had never _dreamed_ of saying to Christine.

"How dare you—"

"I don't care much for beauty," she said, cutting him off. He pressed his lips together in a fine line. "I was told I was beautiful, and I was used for it. I don't put much stock in being pretty. At least you're genuine, Erik. You might wear a mask, but you are genuine about it. People, other people… they wear masks and they never take them off, ever, and it's not until they hurt you that you even realize they were wearing a mask. Don't forget that I've seen monsters. I've seen real monsters, and you are not one of them. In the end, all those pretty faces upstairs… they are so much uglier than you. Your soul is beautiful."

He felt tears running underneath his mask, and it was so ridiculous, because her words were precious and he yearned to believe them, but… "You don't know _anything_ about my soul," he whispered. And even worse, he didn't know what he planned to do to her soul…

"You always say that, Erik. I know there are things in your past… but I don't care. You are here, now, with me, and you've taken care of me… there is good in your soul, I know it."

Erik felt a strange sadness welling up within him, and he didn't understand why. He should appreciate these words, should be yearning for her to say more… but something stopped him. Erik fingered the labels of his jacket, the same one he had died in, the one with the horrid little bullet hole under the left pocket.

"Oh, Christine," he said finally. "You don't know me at all, not really. All I am to you is a ghost… You speak of being used—I, too, was used. I've always been used. Not a single person in my whole life has ever just seen me for me. I was… a living corpse, a circus creature, an architect, musician, performer, a court advisor, a mason… and then again a corpse, a ghost… I was even a husband once. That was just another role that I played, so that someone could use me, so that I could be useful to someone… no one has ever really known me. No one has ever wanted me because I was me. I have never had a friend, not really… even Giovanni…"

He trailed off, knowing that he was speaking of people long dead, events that had happened before she had even been born, before she had even been considered! What was the good of telling her this, anyway? Now that someone was finally accepting his face, now that someone was finally telling him that it didn't matter… why was he pushing her away?

He was tired. His soul was aching. He was too tired to play another role, too tired to accept her blind faith, to pretend and pretend until she truly did leave him when he showed even a hint of himself. All he wanted, after all, was to be loved for himself… that was all. And it had always been too much to ask. Erik turned away from her then, his heart to heavy to bear, and walked steadily out of the room, clutching at his chest. He knelt by the river and stared at the reflection of his black mask. Without knowing why, he lifted the mask away from his face and stared into the water.

Hideous. As it had always been. Hideous and monstrous… Erik was beyond self-loathing, was beyond wanting to harm himself, beyond wanting to die again… all he wanted was peace. He wanted love. He wanted to _belong. _He wanted to ask questions. He wanted to get up on the stage in the middle of Faust and ask the audience why he was unlovable. Why nobody could ever look past the skin on his face. He was so different than the desperate young man who had married Emily, hoping that in the heart of a blind woman he could find peace. Now all he wanted was for everything to be over.

And Christine—even she was no different, it seemed. _He _was meant to save_ her, _not the other way around. _Him, _meant to rescue someone else, never someone else meant to rescue him, meant to cradle him and comfort him… He loved her, but what did it mean? When he had no intention of saving her, none at all?

After several minutes of staring into the water at his rippling reflection he acknowledged that Christine's face had appeared beside him in the water.

"I'm sorry I betrayed your trust that night, Erik," she repeated, and he looked into her eyes in the water. "I never want you to think that I am using you. I was wrong to remove your mask—but I wasn't wrong in wanting to know. I wasn't wrong in wanting to know you—was I?"

Erik dipped a hand into the water and destroyed their reflection. "No, you were not. The only thing you ever did wrong was trusting me…" It didn't matter anymore, that he had thought that she hated him, and it wasn't worth it to bring it up.

Christine laid a hand on his shoulder and bent down to sit on the ground next to him.

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing," she said. "Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls, or goblins, or shoes? Or of riddles, or frocks, or of chocolates? No—what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the Angel of Music sings songs in head."

Erik stared at the little hand on his shoulder, and Christine sighed.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander…"

"I don't understand," he said finally.

"The story I grew up on," she said. "Of Little Lotte and her big dreams. My father always told me that I was Little Lotte—and so Little Lotte I became and Little Lotte I have remained. Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing… she let her mind wander… I think my father meant to do me a kindness, but when he died and I went to the orphanage, I thought of _everything and nothing._ My mind would wander. I've never really lived in this world. I've never wanted to live in this world. I was Little Lotte, and I could dream of frocks and chocolates even when I was in the orphanage, with all those horrible men… and I could dream of an Angel of Music who could take me away and make me want to live…"

Her meaning was plain. Erik swallowed hard. "I am not an angel, Christine."

Christine shrugged. "I don't care what you think. I know you are."

"I'm _dead. _I'm a _ghost."_

"Erik." Christine laid her palm against his cheek and pulled him around to look at her. "Don't be used. Don't be a ghost. _Become _something different. _Live, _and _become. _Become my angel."

Erik unsteadily grasped the hand against his cheek and squeezed it. "Christine," he said solemnly. "You must promise me that you will never try to harm yourself again."

Christine gave him a small smile. "Living is so hard, Erik. I fear you are much better at it than I."

He looked into her eyes, and in the depths he saw his dead wife, lying there in all her beautiful splendor, but he didn't know if he was seeing Emily or Christine.

* * *

Erik mistakenly thought that Christine's thoughts of suicide would be quenched by her failed attempt, but he quickly saw that even here in his home she was desolate and withdrawn. She would go from being contented and happy to completely self-loathing and despairing within minutes, exhibiting a sort of mood change that rivaled even Erik's worst tantrums. He tried to sing to her, tried to play for her, tried to make her sleep more or less, to take her on walks, but she remained curiously distant from him. She had said that he was her angel, but she had also said that he, a ghost, was better at living than she. Erik was terribly frightened that in a fit of rage she would try to hurt herself again. He took to standing constant vigil by her bed while she slept, and even when she thought he was gone he would just hide in the shadows and watch her until he had decided that enough time had passed. She seemed constantly in need of his attention and affection, but was sorely lacking in the ability to return it. He prevailed. Just being able to be near her, to be the only one to take care of her, was enough.

Every day he forced her to stand up in front of the mirror as he stood behind her, and he pointed out every feature on her face that made her unique and beautiful. He would brush out her long hair for her and let it fall through his fingertips, praising its silken splendor. He composed song after song for her and played them each night as she fell asleep. If she didn't know before that he loved her, there could be no question now, none at all, although the words stuck in his mouth and clung to his tongue every time he felt the urge to tell her. Telling Emily had been easier, because she belonged to him. And although Christine's soul was bound up with his own, she might still reject his love. He didn't want to say it out loud; it made everything too final. It would make it much harder when he had to leave her, for her own good…

_If he left her._ Again, that horrid little decision laid waiting in the back of his mind, and he couldn't stand it. He needed her so badly… _Ah, Christine…_

Erik sighed and ran his fingers over his mask. The two weeks were almost over, and Erik did not feel as though he had made enough progress at all with her emotional stability, and had hardly had time to practice any music with her. He had not been upstairs in some time and was also mildly concerned about the health of the viscount and the state of his memory. Currently he stood waiting by the door to the house on the lake, keeping time on the floor with his heel while Christine changed. He had offered to make her a picnic on the roof, and she enthusiastically agreed.

When she came he offered her his arm and they ascended to the roof, which was slowly being bathed in the red light of the sunset over Paris.

"Oh Erik," she said softly. "It's unbelievable."

"Yes," he answered solemnly, taking the basket he had prepared and spreading out its contents under the shadow of Apollo's Lyre. "Paris keeps changing but the view from up here is always beautiful."

Christine gracefully sank to the floor and tucked her skirts underneath her. "What did Paris look like when you first built the Opera House?"

Erik stared out onto the vast city as it stretched out before him, and remembered only that he had once been on the roof with Emily, and they had sat on the roof for hours as Erik had described ever last detail of the view, until it was so dark that he was merely picking out images from his own imagination.

"It looked quite as it does now," he said after a moment. "Desolate. Cruel."

Christine blinked up at him, and he instantly regretted his words.

"Forgive me," he said coolly. "I only speak of my own bitterness."

She stared at him for a while before he sat down beside her and began to pour the wine. "How old were you, Erik?"

"When?" He handed her a glass and began slicing up the cheese.

"When—when you—"

"Twenty six."

Christine blushed at his curt tone. "Twenty six," she said softly. "You were so young."

Erik shrugged. It never made him happy to bemoan his fate with anyone. Why did he need the pity of others, as if he himself had not realized how wretched his own existence was?

"Why did they kill you?" She asked.

He stared at her. The very impertinence of the question struck him, but at the same time he could not be angry with his Christine. He gestured vaguely towards his mask and looked away from her again, slicing the bread slowly, knowing that this last thing he kept from her must be kept forever, even after she knew about the Khanum and Persia and Javert—this thing must be kept from her for always.

"It couldn't be just because of the mask," she said impatiently. She stayed his hand, and he met her eyes. "Erik—please tell me what happened to you."

He felt her fingertips on his own and dropped the knife, instead lifting his other hand to slowly stroke the back of her slender hand.

"Christine," he whispered. "None of it matters, can't you see?" He laced his fingers with hers and slowly lifted it to his chest. "It beats no more, that is true, but even when alive, it beat only for you."

She blinked in confusion. "But your wife—"

"No." He silenced her with a quick gesture. He brought her hand up to rest between his neck and his shoulder, and pressed it there and felt its warmth. "There is no one and nothing but you, my dear Christine. My darling Christine…" _I love you._

Tears were beginning to form in her eyes. "Oh, Erik," she said softly, beginning to stroke the back of his neck of her own accord. "I thought I had been dreaming of death my whole life but I never knew until now that all I was seeing was you."

Erik closed his eyes and allowed her to continue to stoke his poor dead skin.

"It's funny really," she whispered, and he felt that she was closer than she had been before. "I wanted to die, but I had no love for death. And now I want to live, but I am in love with the dead."

Erik's eyes flew open, and in that moment Christine's blue gaze was directly in front of him, blocking out all else from his vision.

"_Christine—"_ A lock of her blond hair fell across their faces and they shared a nervous laugh, before Erik slipped his hand up her neck to rest on her cheek. "The skin of an angel," he said softly. "May I—" he faltered. Her eyes fluttered closed, and his mind railed against him, warning him not to do this, not to destroy her soul by binding her to him in this way—and yet she was so beautiful. "May I kiss you?"

A breath left Christine's lips, and Erik was nearly paralyzed by the sensation of that soft wind hitting his chin. If he could only lift his mask a little, perhaps he could press the lightest of kisses to her cheek- and she wouldn't even feel it! _I love you_, he thought, but he might have been shouting it, too, it wasn't clear—and he felt the tremor of her fingers against the hair on his neck, and the tickle of her curls against his wrist—and suddenly everything was done, because Erik heard the door to the roof open and he propelled himself away from Christine as quickly as he could, burying himself in the cold stone of the back of Apollo's Lyre. Christine suddenly shifted backwards, her eyes searching the roof vainly for him, her arms still held up as though he were still in them—and he wondered what she would have said, how she would have answered his question. Was it true? Did she really love him? And if she did, what did it mean? When she didn't know all of the cruel things that marred his soul… and yet, did it matter? That was all in the past… could he be redeemed? Could he be loved?

And after the fog of her scent passed through his mind Erik remembered that someone else had opened the door on the roof, and he looked around to find this intruder.

_Of course. _Erik was a damnable fool for not having more closely monitored the viscount's health. It was only poetic justice that the viscount should interrupt this moment, now, as he seemed to interrupt all important things when it came to Christine. And with that boy limping around the roof as he was, seemingly almost to have regained his full health… what would he remember? Erik weighed the option of possessing him again, or stealing Christine away from the roof, but didn't know how to accomplish either without the other one seeing, and the frustration at being interrupted in this singular moment boiled until Erik could hardly contain his fury.

"Christine!"

Christine whipped her head around, utterly confused.

"Monsieur?" She asked faintly.

"Christine, whatever are you doing up here all alone?" The viscount approached her, taking in the sight of their half-eaten picnic, and Christine stood suddenly, her face flushed.

"Raoul," she stuttered. She looked all around the roof for him, but Erik remained hidden inside of the statue. "I—I am glad to find you well once more."

"Indeed?" He asked. He stared at the two glasses on the ground. "Is there someone else here?" He asked slowly.

Christine blushed, and took both of the viscount's hands and led him away towards the edge of the roof. Erik clenched his own hands in his exploding anger.

"I am by myself. You see no one else here, do you?"

Raoul looked pointedly at the setup for the picnic and then back at Christine, but then turned away from the blanket and said nothing further.

"Why did you come to the roof?" Christine asked after a pause.

"I wanted some fresh air. It's the first time they've let me out of the infirmary."

"You were ill for quite some time."

"Yes," he said, and Erik felt a deep sense of foreboding at the way that he looked at her when he said this. "Do you remember anything, Christine, from when I was ill? I'm afraid I can hardly recall any of it."

She shrugged. "I already told you—you seemed perfectly fine until the very end."

The viscount nodded. He looked about the roof once more, and Erik knew that the boy was not as stupid as he had hoped.

"You're quite sure that there is no one else here with you, Christine?"

Christine stuttered again. The girl was no good at lying. "Yes, Raoul. I am all alone here."

"I fear there are things happening here at the Opera that are not good for you," he said. "I would like to take you away from here for a while."

"Away?" She asked in a strangled voice. "I couldn't leave the Opera House, I couldn't—"

Erik gripped the insides of the statue as hard as he could to keep himself from screaming.

"I don't think you should perform in the next Opera, Christine. I think you need some rest."

"What makes you think that? Do I look so pale, so sickly?" A thin edge had entered her voice, but the viscount took her by the shoulders gently.

"No, you look beautiful. It is not you that I fear, but rather those that may target you."

"What do you mean, Raoul?"

_Yes, boy, what do you mean? What do you know?_

Raoul hesitated, stroking the edges of her neck softly. "I'm not sure that I can say yet, Christine. But I think I was poisoned."

"P-poisoned?"

_Idiot boy! "_Yes. I cannot account for what happened to me in any other way."

"But Raoul, who would do such a thing?"

"Someone who wanted to keep me away from you."

Christine gazed at him for a second, and then looked back towards the picnic. Surely she was not thinking of Erik! Erik longed to throw his voice into her ear, to pull her back to him. Surely she was not doubting him now! He would not have loved ripped from him again, not again, not like this!

"I can't imagine that there is anyone like that. No one bothers about me here."

Raoul laid his hand on her cheek and Erik seethed. "Please tell me that you'll consider my offer to take some time off at the Chagny estate."

Christine shrugged. "The Opera has been the only home I've known since my father died. I am not eager to leave it now."

"At least promise me you'll think on it."

"I will." She said, but her voice wasn't very convincing. The viscount sat with her for some time, talking of his travels with his brother, and as night fell, Christine began to yawn.

"You are tired," Raoul said, jumping up and offering his hand. "Allow me to escort you to your dressing room."

"Oh, thank you, but I am not going—" Christine stopped very suddenly, and the viscount tightened his grip on her hand excitedly.

"Not going to your room, Christine? But where else could you be going? If you aren't leaving the Opera and you aren't going to your room—"

"What is it to you?" She asked sharply, pulling away from him. "I need make no account to you, M. le viscount!"

"But to someone else, perhaps? Someone who made this meal for you?"

"No!" Christine shook her head wildly. "No, Raoul, you're wrong! There is no one else here!"

"Who are you hiding from me, Christine? Let us see—" Raoul strode over to the setup and pulled the napkins from the glasses. "Perhaps a name, perhaps a seal?"

"No," Christine was nearly in tears. "Raoul, please—"

Erik's heart began to pound wildly in his chest. This damned boy, _this damned boy_… and there was nothing he could do but sit in this statue and watch! He wanted to beat him to a pulp for even daring to touch Christine, for even looking at her.

Raoul fingered the edges of the napkins, smoothing the embroidery over his palm. He examined it closely, and then looked at Christine, and then back at the napkin. Erik frowned, and tried to imagine what the boy thought he was seeing. The only handkerchiefs he owned belonged to Emily, as he had no need of napkins, having had no nose to speak of… But the boy did not know Emily, could not have known Emily. The boy had been born only shortly before Erik died; they had never crossed paths. Erik had had a passing acquaintance with the boy's parents, but there was no way…

"These initials... Christine where did you get these napkins?"

Christine trembled and said nothing, reverting to a comatose-like state of despair that Erik found all too familiar. The boy approached her with one.

"E. G. D. Do you know who these belonged to?"

Christine shook her head slowly. Why was he asking this? How did he know? _How did he know?_

"These napkins belonged to Emily Garnier. Please Christine; tell me how you know her."

"I don't," she said, and a tear ran down her cheek.

"How did you come by her napkins…?" The viscount examined the napkins once more. "You must have found them in Opera storage."

"Storage?" Christine asked faintly.

"Yes. Well, after she died I'm not sure what happened to her things…"

"But why Opera storage?"

"Because of Erik Devereux."

_No. _Christine's eyes widened and Erik's heart stopped. It was not possible, but the boy knew. Somehow, he knew. And as he opened his mouth to speak, Erik made his decision. He darted out of Apollo's Lyre and grabbed Christine to him, hoping the dark would shadow them sufficiently. Keeping his face averted from the viscount's look of fierce shock and outrage, Erik descended with her as quickly as possible, knowing that after this there would only be running and hiding. And that he would do anything and everything to make sure that the boy could never get to Christine again.

**Well. That was a long freakin chapter. There was a whooolllee lot of Erik thinking in this chapter. There were a lot of blocks of text. I suppose I would apologize but I'm not really sorry. I think they were important. I hope you liked the chapter though! I'm trying to keep up the tension. I really really like the way these characters are developing, personally. (Feel free to agree or disagree… in a review!) Surprisingly I even sort of like my Raoul. He's so young and innocent. I like it. I'm trying to channel book Raoul, anyway. **

**So I hope you liked this chapter despite its length. I hope you're still interested! Sorry it's been a while since my last update : (. Don't worry, I'm still sufficiently obsessed with phantom. No stopping here. I also really like this story so it definitely needs to get finished. Please please please tell me what you thought of this chapter! **

**Thanks! You guys are the bestest.**

**~IceCliff**


	11. The Living Wife

****HAS BEEN EDITED TO REFLECT PLOT POINTS!****

**Oooh sadness the last chapter hardly got any reviews. Maybe you guys forgot about me : (. Or maybe it wasn't a good chapter, I don't know… I'm sorry the last chapter took so long to go up! I mean I know the chapter was a little slow but I was hoping you guys would like it… oh well.**

"I know it's over  
My heart will never know another lover  
We two shall never share another breath  
My will has faded  
This longing, it's an unrelenting torture  
Oh, mercy, take me know to my beloved."

-April Smith and the Great Picture Show, _Beloved_

_Erik_

Christine was shivering when he deposited her on the couch in the Louis-Philippe room, and his nerves were so tightly wound that he couldn't bear to stand still. He took to pacing stiffly from each end of the room to the other, until Christine finally broke the silence.

"Erik?" She asked timidly. "What just happened?"

He looked at her viciously and she shrunk under his gaze, and he continued to pace, his mind working at a furious pace. As far as he knew, the boy had no knowledge of Erik's house on the lake, and could not have possibly followed them down to even the first floor of the Opera. But how long would it take him to amass forces to try and find Christine? The boy would ransack the entire Opera, and it would end by him entering the cellars. But then, what would happen? The police of course could not touch Erik, but they could touch Christine, could take her far, far away from Erik.

Erik stopped his pacing at the mantle and turned very surreptitiously to look back at Christine, who was staring wide-eyed into the fire. The fire cast a halo around her blond hair, and his breath caught. The only way to bind her to him for eternity—could he bear to ask it of her? If he ever deserved to burn in hell it was now, and if he wanted to destroy her soul this was surely the way… He abruptly left the room and rummaged through a closet that he had locked after Emily had left him. It was still sitting there, as he knew it would be, wrapped in the beautiful veil that he had ordered for her, and that she had fingered with a smile. Erik drew out Emily's wedding dress and lifted it up until all of the folds of silk and lace fell to the floor in a whoosh. He remembered his wedding night with pain, remembered what he wished had been shut out of his memory forever, and knew a moment of intense remorse.

Emily—he had loved her, had he not? Yes…. He breathed her name ever so softly into the fabric of her dress. _Emily…_ no, he didn't hate her. He wished he hated her. But in the end, how could he blame her for being frightened of him, when in the deepest recesses of his mind, even he was frightened of himself? _Oh, Emily, Emily… _He had wanted everything with her; a life, a family… and she had been so beautiful and so soft… across his mind images flashed, images which he had tried to purge for so many years. She had come to him willingly, that night, the only woman who had ever even dared to touch him, and he had loved her. Oh, how he had loved her… patiently, deeply, so much that it hurt to leave the apartment for more than a few hours, because only her smile could ease his troubled mind. And after everything had happened between then, he had still loved her.

That was the worst of it all—that after everything was done, he had hovered over her deathbed and wondered if she still thought of him, even a little, her poor Erik…

And now, was he to give her wedding dress to Christine? Erik glanced back behind him at the door to the Louis-Philippe room. There was no room for comparison, no space in his mind to debate which one he loved more or with more fervor, because it didn't matter, truly. He and Emily had been bound in life, bound physically, and he and Christine were bound in time, one in soul and mind, and they belonged to each other, forever. The time for thinking was past. The time for regretting and for second guessing, the time for thinking of the Persian's words… that time had passed. It was time for Erik to act.

He folded the dress and the veil over his arm and looked again through the closet for an item that even Emily had never worn. And in the very back of the closet he found it—the sparkling diamond ring that his mother had worn until the day she died. Steeling himself against her possible refusal, Erik carried these items into the Louis-Philippe room and draped the dress and veil over a chair. Christine's confused eyes followed the length of the dress as it hit the floor, and then focused on Erik's face as he knelt before her.

"Erik? Please tell me what's going on. Why did you steal me away from the roof? What is going on with Raoul, how does he know you?"

Erik laid his hand on top of hers and she fell silent.

"Christine, I have waited twenty years for you and your music, and I will never, never stop loving you."

Christine drew in a quick breath and her big blue eyes misted over. He squeezed her hand.

"I want," he began in a whisper, and then faltered. He swallowed. "I want to ask you to do me the great honor of becoming my wife." He opened the velvet box before her and presented the ring.

Christine's mouth fell open as she stared into the box. "E-Erik?" She asked.

He said nothing, merely pulled the ring from the box and held it up before her.

"This was my mother's," he said steadily, not daring to think what he should do if she said no. "I want you to wear it, and I will belong to you forever, and I will be your faithful servant all the days of your life."

Tears fell down her cheeks as she blinked rapidly. "But Erik—But— you are dead."

Erik inclined his head. "Only love me, Christine, and I will be as if alive once more."

With trembling hands Christine took the ring from his hand and held it up to the light.

"It's so beautiful," she said.

"I'll take care of you, Christine." Even as he said it he knew he was deceiving her, utterly destroying her, because the boy could take care of her too, so much better than Erik ever could…. "I'll love you every day for the rest of your life."

"And then?" She asked, looking into his eyes. "And after I'm gone, what then? Will you find another chorus girl in the Opera? Teach her to sing and make her love you? Tell her stories of your dead wife to make her cry for you?"

"Christine—"

"I don't want to be second to her, Erik! I will not live in her shadow! Even—even Raoul knows her—"

Erik clamped down on his anger at the sound of his name. "The viscount does not know what he talks about, believe me—"

"Tell me honestly, Erik. If she had not run from your face, would you even have given me a second glance?"

Erik pressed his hands together and closed his eyes momentarily.

"I want to be loved for myself, Erik, as surely as you do. And for no other reason than that you can't imagine existing without me. And if that isn't true then I don't think I want this ring."

Erik took hold of both of her hands. "Christine, there are few things I have been more sure of in my life. I belong to you. I am wholly and fully yours. Whether I loved her or not, it matters not. Because my soul has always yearned for you, I know that now."

"But how can I believe you?" Christine asked, holding on to him tightly.

"Do you not think that all these years I wanted to move on? To cross over? To leave a world that hated me so thoroughly?"

Christine shrugged.

"Of course I did. I tried every way I knew how, but nothing would work… and I know now that it was because of you."

"What do you mean?" She asked.

Erik swallowed. He knew how wicked this was, to twist Nadir's words to use for his own purposes… but it must be done. "The seer—that Persian man, do you remember him?—he made me understand why I am bound to this earth. He said I was born for you, my dear. That I was killed, _for you._ If you ever doubt my love and my devotion, all you must do is look here—" Erik gestured to the deep hole in his chest. "And you will know that I am yours forever."

Christine laid her fingers against his chest, and he closed his eyes and allowed her to caress his neck and his chin below the mask. When he unclosed his eyes, she was slipping his ring onto her hand.

"I love you, Erik," she said softly. His heart jumped, and he pulled her adorned hand towards him and covered it in feverish kisses.

"Oh, Christine, oh my darling… you have made me happier than I had ever thought possible."

She slipped down onto the ground next to him and embraced him.

His had never felt more love in his life. And as he felt that ring press into his back and knew that her soul was his, his wretchedness was complete.

It had taken little effort for him to find the Persian, as the viscount had gotten the whole staff in a tizzy, looking for Christine. Nadir had been prowling about in the first cellar, calling cautiously for Erik. When Erik's arms closed about him and brought him down to the house on the lake, the seer made little protest.

Christine was in her room changing into the dress, and Erik led Nadir into the Louis-Philippe room.

"That boy is very upset, Erik," the Persian said, looking around the house. "What have you done to him?"

"I've done nothing," Erik said shortly, not wanting to alert the Persian to his antics. He was not sure what other powers the seer might have, especially to deal with a ghost who was possessing people.

Nadir raised an eyebrow. "The boy seems to have a connection to Mlle. Daae."

"Indeed?" Erik asked, trying to keep his temper in check. "So do I, incidentally."

Nadir frowned. "I believe that the viscount and Christine were meant for each other. Their story is very sweet—"

"You said not long ago that Christine and I were meant for each other!"

Nadir hesitated. "No, Erik, you misunderstand me. I said you were meant to save her—"

"Silence!" Erik had heard rustling in the hallway, and soon Christine appeared in the doorway. Erik's knees weakened, and before he could control himself he was across the room and directly before her. She nearly took a step back in fear.

"Erik!" She cried, laughing breathlessly. "I've never seen you move so quickly! I suppose as a ghost you can—"

Erik laid a finger on her lips and she was silenced. He traced that finger down her cheek and her neck, and let it rest on her shoulder.

"Oh, Christine…" She looked more beautiful than he could have possibly imagined. "You are radiant."

She smiled at him from beneath her eyelashes, and he wanted nothing more than to hold her forever. It didn't cross his mind, as perhaps it should, that something had to be seriously wrong with her, if she was willing to give her soul to a dead man. Something was clearly loose in her mind if she hardly even questioned the sanity or the legitimacy of such a marriage. He took her hand and led her into the center of the room.

Nadir's face was slack with disbelief.

"Monsieur," Erik began. "I would like to ask you to marry us, immediately."

Nadir began to shake his head, and Erik tightened his grip on Christine's hand ever so slightly.

"The mademoiselle and I have decided to marry," he repeated, an edge entering his voice. "You will of course accommodate this request."

Christine looked up at him, and Erik smiled down on her briefly.

"May I have a word with the mademoiselle?" Nadir asked stiffly. Erik was loathe to let her alone without him, but she was already nodding. Nadir approached her slowly, glancing at Erik every step of the way. Erik angrily backed away from them, positioning himself in a corner of the room where he could not hear their whispered conversation. He knew Christine loved him, he wasn't afraid of that… but he was afraid of what Nadir might say to her… He wasn't even clear on exactly how much Nadir knew about him, how Nadir had discovered his connection to Christine… What if he told her something horrible? Told her that marriage to the dead could cause horrible consequences? Erik wasn't sure about it, but he knew it could be possible. Playing with souls was always a tricky thing.

He considered going up to the surface to check on the progress of the viscount, but soon Nadir was pulling away, and Christine was looking eagerly towards Erik.

He moved towards them, and Nadir approached him.

"I think this is a very bad idea, Erik."

"Your opinion has been noted."

Nadir shook his head at Erik's sarcasm. "You will destroy her soul this way Erik, and you will never be able to move on."

Erik shrugged and let his eyes flit past the Persian towards Christine's lovely head of blond curls.

"What did you say to her?"

Nadir narrowed his eyes. "I told her what I thought was best."

Erik made a movement towards him, but Nadir caught his arm.

"You don't want to move on, do you?" He whispered fiercely. "You want to stay here, with her—"

"What if I do?"

"It's not right, Erik; it's not the way things are supposed to be. You cannot bind the living to the dead, you just cannot. The longer you remain on this earth the longer you hinder her progress, and the longer you disrupt the natural order of things."

"Do you think I care a hang for the natural order of things?" Erik gestured wildly at his mask. "Do you think _this _was part of the natural order of things? No! I deserve my rewards now, I deserve my fair share! I will have her and I will have her love, forever."

Nadir stepped away from him.

"If you truly love her as you say you do—"

"Don't," Erik said darkly. "Just don't." He strode over to Christine and took her firmly in his grasp. "Marry us," he said simply.

Nadir massaged his temples slowly before asking Erik if he had a bible on hand. Erik didn't know what tricks Nadir might have up his sleeve, but was content, nonetheless.

When it was done, and Nadir was gone, Erik took Christine very gently in his embrace.

"I love you," he said, kissing her hair through her veil. He began to hum, and Christine led them in a slow waltz across the carpet.

"I'm happy," she said, and he knew that coming from her the statement had deep meaning.

Her dress swirled on the carpet and eventually Christine fell into a chair, pulling Erik beside her. He relished in her sudden and constant closeness, the way that she now seemed to have no qualms about touching him, stroking his shoulders and his back.

She rested her head against his. He felt more at peace than he had in years, and refused to admit the voices of doubt in the back of his mind. Tonight, love would be his. The weight of his old wedding ring bore on his finger now, but it was no longer a burden of misery, but rather a reminder of fresh love and new hope.

"I wish we could go away somewhere and be by ourselves for the rest of forever," Christine said.

"Yes," Erik agreed gravely, sad that he could not take her anywhere outside of this building. He suddenly turned to her and took her face in his hands. "I cannot take you away, this is true, but I can make for you anything that you desire. Shall I build Venice for you, in this lake? Do you want Tehran, in her Persian glory? Anything you want you shall have, here in my Opera House."

Christine smiled. "I should like to see Rome. Have you ever been to Rome?"

"Oh yes, my dear, indeed I have."

Erik proceeded to tell her stories of Italy, touching even slightly upon his acquaintance with Giovanni, and then told her of Russia, and the Orient, and Germany and England… they lay talking for hours, until eventually Christine was lying on the carpet, her head cradled in Erik's lap, the fire throwing long shadows on the folds of her dress.

"Perhaps it is time to retire, my darling," Erik said, his hand on her cheek. She looked up at him, and there was something unreadable in her eyes. She stood suddenly, and Erik clumsily jumped to his feet after her. She wrapped her arms around her torso and fled into the kitchen, claiming hunger. He darted after her, and she stood on the other side of the table, looking at him.

"Darling?" He asked gently.  
Christine's fingers gripped the chair before her until they turned white. "I can't do this,

Erik."

Erik's heart lurched. _No, no, no, no, no, she loves me, she must love me. _She couldn't mean this. She couldn't mean to take this love away from him. "Christine—"

She turned away from him. "I'm sorry!" She said. "I thought I could, truly, I thought I could do it, but I just can't…"

Erik felt as though his insides were slowly melting. Tears pricked at his eyes and all he could think was how very unfair all of this was. Why was he never, never granted happiness?

"Christine—" his voice broke. "I love you_." Please, please don't leave me. I couldn't bear it…_

"I know, Erik." A tear fell down her cheek and she dashed at it. "It's just that—I'm terribly frightened! I know it's expected of me, but I don't think I can—"

Erik blinked at rapid beating of his heart, resurrected at her words. "What—what do you mean?"

She turned to face him fully, her dejection etched on her lovely face. "I'm not worthy of you, Erik," she whispered.

He crossed the kitchen and took her by her arms. "What are you saying, darling?"

He asked urgently.

"Probably s_he_ never would have done this to you. But I just can't—"

"Christine what are you talking about?"

"I want you all to myself!" She shouted. "I'm terribly jealous of her and I won't have it anymore!"

"Christine, this is nonsense. I've told you that I love you completely. My past does not matter."

"Yes, but…" she blinked away tears. "But now I cannot give you what she surely gave you on your wedding night…"

Erik blinked several times before he finally understood. Somehow he had not even considered this aspect of their marriage. After all, he was dead… he wasn't even sure if he was capable of it. Nonetheless, a horrible longing shot through his chest before he clamped it down as hard as he could. That was not why he loved her, not why he married her. That must be pushed far away, forever.

"Christine, darling. Nothing is asked of you here in my home. All I want is your love and companionship forever—"

"But I want to give you everything, Erik."

"I have everything I could ever want, dear."

She looked up at him through tears. "One day I'll be able to. It just hasn't been enough time yet. I can still feel their hands, still feel him inside—"

_"Christine_." He pulled her to him fiercely. "Put this all out of mind. I am deliriously happy just to be able to look at you and have you smile on me. Please think no further than that."

"But _she _would have—"

"_She _is dead, Christine. And you'll remember that you did more for me than she ever could, when you looked at my face and knew what was beneath the mask, and did not die…"

Christine pulled away and looked up at him. "I love you, Erik. I will love you forever."

"Good," he said. He kissed her gently on the forehead. "Come, my bride. Let us retire."

Christine was a radiant wife, more happy and contented than he had ever seen her, and it warmed Erik's heart. He did not see any alarming changes in her for being committed to the dead; for example, her skin did not turn ghastly yellow and she did not begin speaking in tongues. Perhaps it was safe for him to assume that nothing truly awful would happen to her? He wondered still what the seer had said to her in that private conference, but it couldn't have been too bad, otherwise Christine would not be with him now.

They took walks along the river and sang for days, it seemed, before even realizing that they were completely out of food. Erik went to the cafeteria to get some food for Christine, having in his wedded bliss completely forgotten that he had married her because of the threat of the viscount. It was impossible to forget that now, on the surface, where the only word anyone uttered was about the mad viscount and his search for Christine. Erik debated searching for the boy and simply returning to Christine. He was fairly sure that it would take the boy at least several weeks to get down to the cellars, and by then Erik planned to have set up his defenses. On his way back down to the cellars he collected some of the old set pieces he would need to make Christine her Rome.

The day was glorious, and Christine hung off of Erik's every word, constantly squeezing his hand and telling him that she loved him. If he had to cross over that very next second, he knew that he would have experienced all the happiness that world ever had to offer.

Towards late afternoon, Erik sat Christine down on the bank of the lake and told her about Javert, and Persia. He wanted her to know everything. He wanted to share himself with someone else, to become one with another soul. When he was done, Christine pulled him into her arms.

"My poor Erik," she whispered, stroking his hair. He looked up at her, and she slowly removed his mask, having given him ample time to stop her. She let it drop to the floor, and they stared at each other, face to face.

Tears began to bubble forth from his eyes.

"Poor Erik," she said again, catching one of his tears on her palm. She leaned forward and brushed her smooth cheek against his, and he closed his eyes. Her hair was thick and smelled of fruit, and he was completely lost in his love for her. He felt giddy, like a little child who has just discovered that his parents love him deeply… he felt her kiss his forehead and knew that every pain and scar in his heart was slowly being erased by her angelic lips, every scar except for one…

Suddenly the electric bell rang inside his home. Christine pulled away and looked at Erik in alarm.

"What was that?"

Gripped in fear, Erik stood suddenly. There was no way that the viscount had found his way down here so quickly, no way at all…

"Come," he said, grabbing her quickly and dragging her into the house.

"What is it, Erik?"

"Stay in here!" He commanded, throwing her into her room and locking the door. Christine pounded on the wall.

"Erik! Erik!"

Erik looked about him for a weapon, anything, but found his apartment frustratingly empty except for staves of music. He heard noises on the lake. Impossible! How had they found his house?

He burst through the doors and found his answer. There was the viscount, spluttering and dripping wet, climbing onto the bank of the house on the lake, and there was the Persian directly beside him. Erik made the decision in less than a second. It was perfectly clear to him: he would have to kill them both, before Christine found out who they were. Erik picked up the nearest piece of driftwood and advanced on them, when suddenly he felt a little hand on his shoulder.

He whipped around to see her, her blue eyes fixated on the viscount, who was breathing hard, his hands on his knees. _Damn. Damn, damn damn! _He was an idiot for letting this happen…

"Christine," the boy said.

"You left the key in my room, Erik," she said, her voice hard. "You haven't had much practice locking people in rooms since you've been dead, have you?" Her biting sarcasm struck him deep.

The viscount took a step towards them, and Erik threw the driftwood at him, hard. He jumped back.

"Not another step," Erik warned, his voice like acid.

"Christine," the boy said again. "Come back with me now." Erik cursed himself for speaking, remembering of course that the viscount could not hear him.

"I can't Raoul," Christine said. "I am a married woman now." Erik let out a breath. She was angry at him, that was clear, but perhaps she still loved him…

"_What?" _Raoul looked between the two of them. "You monster!" He shouted, pointing at Erik. "You're dead! How dare you take her soul in this manner?"

"Raoul, please," Christine said, before Erik could respond. "You have to leave now."

The viscount looked at her and offered his hand. "Christine, you know you don't need to stay here. This is a ghost. He cannot have any control over you, and he cannot follow you. We can exorcise him, we can—"

Erik's heart jumped. He had never even considered such a horrible fate.

"Raoul, please," Christine said again.

Erik stepped forward in front of her. "Leave me and my wife be," he said, and then felt idiotic for mouthing at the viscount like a ridiculous codfish.

But the boy stepped forward again. "Your wife?" He asked with emphasis. "You've poisoned her soul! She does not belong to you, monsieur. Monsieur Khan has told me—"

"Leave now or it will prove very dangerous for your health!" Erik said, not caring to think what twist of fate caused the viscount to hear Erik as well. It didn't matter, as long as the boy kept his mouth shut.

The viscount laughed wildly. "You threaten me, Monsieur Devereux? I suppose Christine knows who you are, does she?"

"Quiet, boy!" Erik shifted directly in front of the viscount. "You know _nothing!"_

"You think your ghost can scare me? You forget that my brother was very close with Emily Garnier's second husband! I know how to banish you, far far away from here. _Yes,_ that scares you doesn't it? Certain privileges to being alive, I'd say-"

Erik had Raoul up against the wall, his throat in a choke hold. Christine let out a scream, but Erik ignored her.

"Speak again, boy. I dare you."

Raoul began to laugh at the same time that he choked. "Oh," he said, looking Erik directly in the eye. "I remember you. I remember that look."

Erik's heart began to beat wildly. Did the boy remember the possession? It couldn't be—how was everything crashing down around him so suddenly?

"Chrisitne," Raoul said, looking over in her direction. "You don't need to honor your marriage to him. He's lied to you, I promise."

Erik let out a roar of rage and pinned him to the wall. Something cracked and the viscount groaned.

"Don't kill him, Erik!" Christine cried, and in that moment of weakness Erik let go of the viscount's throat and everything fell apart.

The boy fell to the floor, laughing. "Ask him to tell you how he killed his son."

** Yay! The deed is done. I hope you guys liked it! I tried really hard with this chapter but I'm not sure how I feel about it. Pllllllleeeeeeease love me and review! Please! Review, review!**

** I really want to know what you think!**

** I look forward to seeing your reviews!**

** -IceCliff**


	12. All Roads Lead to Rome

** Helloooooooooooooo everybody! =) Thank you so, so much for your reviews! They were wonderful and heartwarming and made me very, very happy. **

** So everyone should be aware that I made some changes to the last chapter—mostly the end, although it wasn't very long so I guess it was most of the chapter, although the changes are most concentrated in the last section. Go back and peruse it if you are interested. Otherwise just know—Raoul is not supposed to hear Erik because of course Erik is a ghost, so when he does Erik is surprised. Also, I have a lot more references to the fact that Christine has decided to marry a ghost, and what this might mean for her soul, you know, instead of how she was basically just like, "oh jolly good, let's get married—oh, you're dead? No big deal…" And finally, I added a few lines from Raoul threatening exorcism, something which Erik is very frightened of (and also Raoul begins to remember the possession.)**

** Okay so sorry about that chapter lacking that important stuff. I really like that chapter anyway, and I especially like my Raoul a lot. I mean whatever, I'm a selfish author, I like all my characters.**

** Anyways, chapter 12! I'm so excited! Yayyy. Okay so I hope you love it. Here goes: please let me know what you think!**

"You were the thrill that stilled my beating heart, baby  
You are the one I'll dream the most  
But if I cannot have the real thing  
I'll gladly settle for your ghost."

-April Smith and the Great Picture Show, _Beloved_

_Erik_

Erik lunged at the viscount, but found himself flung far away from him, against the wall of the house on the lake. He looked up at Nadir's outstretched hand, and felt the weight of the force keeping him against the wall. He had been afraid of this, afraid of the seer's powers. He cursed a thousand times as Nadir helped the viscount stand before he heard a sniffle from his wife.

Christine trembled. She had turned to look at him. Her eyes were wide and filled to the brim with tears.

"Erik?" She whispered.

"_Christine, no—_" He tried to reach out for her but she stepped away.

"What is Raoul saying?" She asked.

He shook his head, trying to get to her but finding himself still held to the wall by Nadir's hand.

"Christine, please trust me."

She took a hesitant step towards him, before Nadir quickly pulled her away and put the boy's arm around her. Raoul's other arm hung at an awkward angle, and Erik figured that he must have broken it.

"No!" Erik struggled against his invisible bonds but the seer was quickly shuffling them away, deaf to Erik's protests, and soon they were gone through Erik's old passage through the walls.

"What have you done, you fool!" Erik screamed at his back.

Nadir turned from the wall, and then slowly made his way up the stairs until he was inches away from Erik's murderous gaze.

"I never had any intention of letting that farce of a marriage persist."

Erik tried to grab his throat but found himself even more restrained than before.

"_Damn you." _

"I will not let you play with souls, Erik."

"She is my wife."

"She is clearly a disturbed child. Keeping company with the dead is extremely unnatural."

"I am trying to save her!"

"You are trying to bind her to you eternally; it has nothing to do with saving her. Admit it."

"I _love_ her."

Nadir nodded grimly. "I suspect that you might, after all. But it doesn't matter. I look to her safety. I look to her spiritual health."

Erik struggled again against the wall, wanting to scream.

Nadir paced back and forth before him. "I must ask—I hope you will not be too offended by it—I must know what occurred on your wedding night."

"What—how dare you! How dare you ask such an insolent question!"

"Erik." Nadir approached him, more menacingly than Erik ever would have expected from the frail seer, no doubt encouraged by the knowledge that Erik was bound to the wall. "You have the power to completely destroy this girl, to make sure that she never has entrance to any sort of afterlife. I need to know what has happened."

"What—what would happen to her if such a thing would occur?" Because after all, Erik did love her. He did not want to destroy her, not really. It was just so hard to keep away from her, especially with that boy everywhere…

"I expect then that it has not occurred."

Erik made no answer, and Nadir sighed.

"If you were to join with her in such an intimate manner… well I cannot be completely sure what would happen. I don't think that she would die, not in the traditional sense. But I feel that her soul would become too bound up with yours—eventually the soul would just slip from her body."

Erik stared at him, aghast.

"Yes," Nadir said grimly. "I imagine that such a thought frightens you. Perhaps it will encourage you to keep away from her—"

"But she needs me. You yourself said—"

"I said that you needed to save her. My initial interest had been to help you to cross over. However, under the circumstances my main objective must now be Mlle. Daae's spiritual health. I will condemn you to this eternal limbo if it means that she is safe."

"What are you saying?" Erik asked, slowly testing out all of his limbs, trying to find weak spots in the seer's power.

"I am saying," Nadir said, looking Erik directly in the eye, "that the time may come soon when I will need to remove her from this Opera House, permanently."

Erik sucked in a breath. "You will destroy her that way," he whispered, knowing that her destruction was his destruction, as well.

Nadir began to shake his head.

"Listen to me, seer!" Erik said angrily. "Christine is suicidal. She needs me. I'm the only one who can save her."

"Before you, she was perfectly happy to be in the company of the young viscount—"

"Before me she was miserable, pale, unhappy, closer to death that life!"

Nadir stared at Erik for several seconds before sighing. "There is no point to continuing this conversation. I am going to ask two things of you now, Erik, and you will obey them, because you have now seen a glimpse of the power I can hold over you. Know now that I will absolutely exorcise you if I must, and there is no escape from that horrible fate once it has occurred."

Erik glared at him, but Nadir laid both hands on Erik's shoulders and leaned in close. "One. You will stay far away from Mlle. Daae. You will not speak to her or sing to her. You will allow her life to continue along its course. Two. You will never, never possess another living soul again. Don't look so surprised, Erik. You take me for an idiot. I saw the recognition in the viscount's eyes clear as you did. And I know you won't even begin to tell me that the viscount is a seer himself—no. He hears you because you possessed him, and now he is connected to your ghost as much as Mlle. Daae is. If I find you doing either of these things, I swear I will exorcise you on the spot. Is that clear?"

Erik stiffened. He had never been spoken to thusly in his life, and he desperately wanted to wring the seer's neck. He knew he could kill the seer—certainly he could. As far as he knew the man had no one who looked after him, never had a woman hanging from his arm any time he had been to the Opera. Erik could kill him and drag him down to a cellar where no one would ever come looking… and then he would have no obstacle to having Christine for the rest of her life. They boy—hell, he could kill the boy too!

Erik stared into the Persian's green eyes, and wonderful, twisted plan began to form in his mind. Yes, they would both die, and beautifully. And Christine would finally, rightfully, be Erik's.

"Yes," Erik said without a trace of the smile pulling at his lips. "Perfectly clear."

* * *

Erik wasn't sure how much time had passed between when the seer released him from his hold and when Raoul had taken Christine away, but he guessed that it couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes. Perhaps in that time the boy hadn't yet told Christine what he knew. Perhaps Erik could still get to her. He knew that the first thing the seer would do was to go and check on Christine, and Erik wasn't foolish enough to go up and steal her away, and he wasn't going to risk possessing the viscount, in case the seer was watching him too. Instead, Erik found his way into the first cellar and possessed the old stage hand, Joseph Bouquet, whose mind was too intoxicated to fight against Erik's insistent orders to his body. If Erik had ever had qualms before about possessing other souls, he had absolutely no misgivings about it now. He would do what was necessary to get close to Christine again. She belonged to him. Nothing else mattered now, not even her soul. It was too late for that.

It was silly that Erik had ever even considered letting go of her—imagine, all because of what the seer had said! It was ludicrous really, simply madness. He knew he was never going to let her go. Whatever noble intentions he had professed to convince himself that he deserved Christine… it was all foolishness. Erik had an evil streak running through him, a dark crack through his heart that would never be repaired, one that allowed him to commit acts that the worst monsters in history had never considered. And now he was going to do just that—the worst act thinkable—he was going to steal a human soul.

Joseph's limbs were a little gooey from the alcohol, but Erik could still maneuver himself towards through the darkened theatre, listening for Christine's voice. He saw the Persian moving along the along the first floor corridors, and Erik stumbled up the stairs in pursuit of him. When they crossed paths, Erik bowed, and the Persian sniffed the alcohol drenched air around Bouquet and gave a stiff nod. Erik smirked, following the Persian up another flight of stairs until they came upon a little deserted office near the grand escalier. The Persian paused near the door and listened, and Erik slowly moved past him, towards a trap door that led into the corridor between this office and the manager's office. He could feel the Persian's eyes on his back, and he made sure to stumble a little more than necessary before slipping through the trap door. He could hear Christine now, talking quietly and dazedly. Erik slipped out of Bouquet and the man fell into a drunken stupor, too drained from the possession to fight towards consciousness.

Erik edged along the ceiling of the office, keeping to the shadows. Christine was standing near the door, her face in her hands, and the boy was standing close behind her, his hands hovering over her shoulders.

"Christine, please say something to me."

Christine shook her head from side to side very tightly. Raoul sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned away from her to stalk about the room frustratedly.

"You haven't said a word in nearly twenty minutes, Christine! You have to understand, I'm only trying to help you."

Christine pressed her outstretched arm against the door and leaned her head against her elbow. Erik could hear quiet sobs escaping her throat.

The viscount returned to her, his voice softer now, his hands grazing her hair.

"Please, Little Lotte. Please let me help you."

Christine lifted her head and looked at him. Erik's heart dropped. He knew that look—a look he hadn't seen since they had been married. She had been his living wife for these blissful days, but now suddenly she was his dead wife again, with no more life in her than flowed through Erik. "I want to go home now," she whispered.

Raoul nodded quickly. "Yes, darling, yes I'll bring you home. I'll just call my brougham—"

"No." Christine shook her head. "I want to go home to Erik." Erik's heart swelled. She loved him. She still loved him.

Raoul dropped his hands. He suddenly looked extremely tired, much older than his twenty two summers. "Christine," he said, very softly. "You know—" He swallowed. "You know that Erik Devereux is a ghost, don't you?"

Christine merely looked at him.

Raoul dug the toe of his shoe into the ground. "Christine, my dear old friend… I wish I could save you from yourself."

Christine paled for a second, and then she was Erik's living wife again, as her cheeks flushed and she drew herself up to her full height, turning on Raoul with anger that impressed Erik.

"Save me from myself?" She repeated. Raoul threw up his hands as if to fend off the attack of her words. She advanced towards him. "_Save me from myself, M. le Viscount?_ What is it about me that you think needs saving, hmm? Don't talk to me about saving! I asked you for help—I asked you—and you ran away! Ooh, I hate you! I hate you, I hate you for thinking that you know anything about me, when you don't even listen! Why can't you just go away, like you said you would? Go right away, Raoul, go right away to the North Pole and don't ever come back!"

There was silence. Raoul stared at her in shock.

"What—what do you mean, Christine? I'm not going to the North Pole."

_Damn._ Erik gripped the edges of the wooden planks he was wedged between and thought desperately for a smart move. He couldn't think of a single action that wouldn't attract the attention of the seer…

"_Christine_." He leaned forward and threw his voice very quietly into the ear that was turned away from the viscount. She flinched, looking all around her, staring intently into each of the shadows.

"Christine?" The viscount asked. She whipped her gaze back to him, her eyes wide.

"I—"

"What is it?"

_Damn the boy and his infernal stupidity! _Didn't the boy understand tact, understand her need to be alone?

Christine opened her mouth to speak, and Erik threw his voice again, desperately.

_ "Tell him you want to go to your dressing room now. Tell him you want some time to think."_

Christine began to shiver. She closed her arms around herself and clenched her eyes tightly.

"Little Lotte! What's wrong?"

Christine shook her head. "I don't know, I don't know—"

_"My dear, all this can be over soon. Just tell him you want to be alone."_

Christine opened her eyes. "I want to go to my dressing room now," she said.

Raoul sighed. "All right. But first—Christine, you know I'm not going anywhere, right? I'm not going to leave you."

_"Leave. Now."_

Christine turned a circle around the room, searching for Erik desperately.

"C_hristine, darling, please leave now." _What else could he do or say?

Raoul caught her arm.

_"Christine, open the door and leave straight away."_

She laid her hand on the door knob and began to turn it. The seer charged into the room immediately and Erik cursed internally. He had no idea what sort of things the seer could sense. It was possible that he would hear Erik's voice or sense his presence if he made himself known.

"Is everything all right?" He asked.

"I want to go back to my dressing room," Christine said mechanically.

Raoul and the seer exchanged glances, and then Raoul took her arm and began leading her out.

"Madame Valerius is back in town, Christine. Don't you think you should go spend time with her?"

Christine shook her head. "I just want to be alone."

Raoul and Christine continued to walk for some time, with the seer following close behind them. Erik's heart rate began to slow as he waited for her at the end of the corridor.

Raoul brought her to the door and stopped.

"Good night, Raoul," Christine said, pushing open the door.

Raoul caught her by her elbow. "You don't have to talk to me. I know you're upset. But I just want to make sure you understand that I'm not going anywhere."

Christine looked into his eyes. "You're not going to the North?"

"No," Raoul said. "I was never planning on it."

Erik glanced at the seer, who was watching them intently. Damn, damn, damn! What could he do?

Christine hesitated at the threshold of the open door. "I thought you told me you were going away."

"When did I say this?"

"When we were in Perros."

Raoul looked at the seer, who approached, and laid a hand on Christine's shoulder. He glanced into the shadows, and Erik instinctively pulled himself up and away from the man's eyes.

"I think perhaps we should take this conversation outside of the Opera House."

Erik watched with seething eyes as the group made their way out of his kingdom. He hesitated for only one second, before finding a young man from the ballet and proceeding with his body out the door.

The three of them walked very quickly, and Erik followed behind, staying close to the curb and trying to look as common-place as possible. He could not think of anything to do short of abducting Christine or pretending to be a thief and knocking the two men out. He even considered briefly for a second what would happen if he possessed Christine herself and then maneuvered her back to the Opera House, but he knew that the seer would sense it. He tried to walk as close as possible without them noticing him.

The walked down the stairs of the Opera in silence, and the seer quickly led them down the Rue de Rivoli.

"It should be safe to talk here," he said, as he unlocked a door that led into a modest building. Erik cursed. He lounged outside of the building for several seconds until he heard the inner door close, and then set about picking the lock. He crept inside the building and tried to follow their footsteps to the second floor, where the seer unlocked another door.

"I think it would be wise for Mlle. Daae to remain here for the night," the Persian was saying.

"But I want to go back," Christine said.

"Christine—" the viscount hesitated, and Erik heard them cross the threshold into the room. "You can't go back there. That man—that ghost—"

"Erik won't hurt me," she said.

Erik knew what was coming as he heard the door close, but was also painfully aware that he had no tricks left to stop it.

"Erik Devereux possessed me, Christine."

Their voices died down as they made their way further into the flat, and Erik slid down onto the floor in the hall and buried his smooth face into the hands of the boy from the ballet. His options were more limited now—before it had simply been a matter of getting Christine away from the seer. But now that Raoul would turn her against him… now it was a matter of taking her against her own will. Her love would surely not stand the test of the list of crimes the boy was about to bring against him. Erik remained sitting against the wall, thinking through his options, and straining to hear the conversation inside. After many hours of remaining still against the wall, he felt the ballet boy begin to rear up against his control, and he was too tired to fight. He stood and brushed himself off before slowly returning to the Opera.

The early morning streets were dark, and Erik thought of one of the last times he had tread this road while alive. It had been the brightest day of that summer, the whole city alive and bustling. He had walked hand in hand with a small boy towards the Opera, a young boy with a smooth and beautiful face, with soft eyes and a kind smile, like Emily's… his son. Their son.

As Erik approached the steps of the Opera he felt the weight of the past bearing down on him in a way it hadn't in ten years. He remembered the boy in short bursts—his voice had been high-pitched and excited. He had chattered about the dancers and the singers. He had talked about his mother, asked Erik if he knew his father. His eyes had been so bright, so confused, right before he died…

Erik's heart clutched and he slipped out from the man he was possessing, too weak to keep up his strength. He cursed the viscount over and over for bringing this horrid memory back to life. He had no idea how Raoul was even aware of what had happened, but it didn't matter, because once Christine knew, the only answer was to take her by force. As he blasted through the cellars angrily, he thought of the blissful days they had passed as husband and wife, belonging to one another, needing no other… and he remember what she had said about Rome, and how he had collected a few pieces of set to begin constructing her Rome. An idea began to form in his mind.

If Christine wanted Rome, he was not going to deny her. Not at all. But there was no reason why Rome had to allow everyone into the city. His Rome could admit the fair lady, but be protected on all sides from interlopers. It would be a glorious, beautiful thing to watch the fireworks from the center of the city, knowing that those who came searching would never come again… yes, all roads would lead to Rome!

* * *

Erik didn't leave the cellars for a week. He worked day and night, ferrying things over from upstairs, collecting the explosives from the Communist's dungeons, laying foundations for roads, and painting signs and sets to look like his favorite passages in Rome. He wanted to construct the most realistic illusion possible, on par with the dizzying delusions of the torture chamber, the entrance to which lay at the end of a pleasant-looking boulevard dotted with painted storefronts and flowers. Erik constructed one face of the basilica, and in the center created a false square with flowers, a fountain, and even a few fake squirrels. Everything had to be perfect. He laced the explosives along the outer boulevards and wired the detonator into a button underneath a small grasshopper planted in the flowers near the fountain. He set up millions of tiny little electric lights everywhere, bringing his Rome fantasy to life. After the week was up, he stood back and admired his creation.

It was time to fetch Christine.

He hoped they had returned her to the Opera House already, but if they hadn't he was prepared to inhabit a porter carrying a fake note from the managers which would request her presence at rehearsal. He slid onto the ceiling of her dressing room as was relieved to find her sitting at her dresser as a maid brushed out her lovely blond hair. She was so beautiful… his heart weakened at the sight of her, every time. He loved her so much… he had to have her back.

Erik waited patiently until the maid packed up and left, and Christine changed into a dressing gown and prepared to go to sleep. He had thought that perhaps the Persian and the boy would not allow her to sleep in the Opera House, but then again, the feared Opera Ghost had not made an appearance in a week. They probably thought him gone. Erik stifled a laugh. It was ludicrous for the seer to believe that his puny threats could keep Erik away from his wife.

Christine turned off the lights and tucked herself under the covers of her bed. Erik waited a split second to make sure that no one was going to come in and check in on her, and then quietly descended to the floor and picked her up in his arms. She tried to protest, but he was prepared with chloroform, conveniently acquired from the Opera Infirmary. He laid her down on a bench in the middle of the Roman square and waited for her to awaken.

When she did, she showed every sign of believing that she was still dreaming. She sat up immediately, staring wide-eyed at the scene around her. She reached out a tentative hand to touch a flower and then recoiled immediately, letting out a frightened yelp.

"It's all right, Christine," Erik said, stepping out of the shadows.

Christine jumped again, her eyes settling on his form in fear. "E-Erik?"

"Yes, my dear." Erik advanced towards her slowly. She shifted backwards ever so slightly, but he tried to ignore it. He knelt before her on the bed of fake flowers.

"Is it as enchanting as you had expected, my dear?" He asked.

"W-what?"

"Rome, my Christine. Rome." Erik spread out his hands expansively. "Is it everything you wanted?"

She hesitated, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes.

"What are you saying, Erik?"

"I built Rome for you," he said patiently.

She slid her eyes from side to side, taking in as much as she could from the square, her mouth falling open a little.

"Where are we?"

"We are on the lake, my dear. There was much unused space on the banks of the underground lake. I just never had cause to use them before now."

She lifted her eyes and saw that Erik had painted the ceiling blue with white clouds and then looked back at him. They remained silent for several seconds before he stood and offered his hand.

"Shall I show you your city?"

Christine remained sitting, staring at him, and he pulled her hand towards him, anger beginning to well up within him.

"Come, my dear," he said, more forcefully than he had intended. "You must see it."

He pulled her along the main road, trying to get her to look at every bird and every little café, resenting the hesitation in her eyes. He remembered previous walks on the shores of the lake, walks where Christine had taken his face in hers, had kissed him…

"Look," he said, dragging her across another street towards the basilica. "Look at its ancient glory."

She nodded half-heartedly, and he snapped. He grabbed her shoulders and forced her against the wall of the basilica.

"Look at me! Look at me!" She began to cry openly now, shaking her head. "You can't even look at me, Christine? You can't even give me that? I, your husband!"

"You are not my husband," she whispered, and for the first time he realized that she had taken off her wedding ring. He was so angry that he had to let go for fear of breaking her tiny neck by accident. She had loved him, she had loved him! And now, this? It tore his heart in half as quickly as it incited his fury. He wanted her love, craved her devotion… why was it happening now, why was she pulling away from him now?

"Is this what I deserve," he asked, clenching his fists together behind his back, "after all I have done for you? You would just desert me like this, without even another thought, just toss me aside, without even coming to talk to me first?"

Christine shook with sobs. "You lied to me. You took advantage of me."

"Took advantage—" Erik tried to keep himself from bursting with rage. "They're feeding you lies! Can't you see that, Christine? You're just parroting exactly what they told you—Erik Devereux is a dangerous man, a dangerous ghost, he doesn't love you, he can't love you—he's the devil's child!"

Christine raised her eyes to his. "You took advantage of me," she repeated. "I was new here, I was alone—"

"Alone, yes! And suicidal! Allow me to remind you of what I did for you when no one else did—"

"Because he didn't know," she said, her anger now beginning as well. "Because Raoul didn't know, because you didn't let him, because you _possessed_ him—"

"Because you're mine!" There was booming silence as his voice echoed off the walls of the fake city. "You're mine, Christine, mine for eternity."

She shook her head, stepping as far back from him as possible. "You told me that I knew everything about you, everything you had done, that you had revealed yourself to me… you didn't tell me that you killed your son."

"And instead of coming to me—_your husband—_instead you are trying me, and condemning me, without even a chance."

"But your son, Erik—"

"_Yes, I know!_ Do you think I don't know? Do you think I forgot what happened? _Do you think you feel that pain more acutely than I?_"

Christine just looked up at him, and Erik knew that whatever the boy had told her was far from what had truly happened. The papers had never gotten the story right, anyway…

"Christine," he said, approaching her. "Let me in. Trust me as you did before. Let me tell you what happened." He reached out for her hand. "I love you," he said softly.

"No." She turned away from him. "No, stay away from me."

"Christine—" He tried to grab her.

"No!" She ran away from the basilica. "I don't believe in you anymore, Erik. I don't believe in ghosts!" And she kept running, through the boulevards and towards the lake, and then up through the exit that he dearly regretted showing her and towards the theatre.

He had no doubt that she would run to her little boy now and tell him all about the horrible ghost. He had no doubt that the Persian would come after him.

Well, he was prepared for them. He would not let her go away from him so easily. He wouldn't lose his love. Not this time. Not like Emily.

Erik turned away from her fleeing form and lifted his arms to the beauty of his fake city.

"And now," he said, "let it be war upon you all."

**Yaaaay! How exciting. I'm so glad to be done with this chapter so I can finally update. This chapter was incredibly difficult to write. I absolutely hate the first part; I think it's horrid. I like the second half and I think the end is okay… but anyway, I hope you guys love it! Let me know = ) Thank you all so, so much for keeping up with this story. It makes me so happy! I feel that the story is nearing its ending soon… but there are still some very important things to come!**

**Kay reference, or rather, stolen expression/idea in the "all roads lead to Rome" thing.**

** Please let me know what you think about what is going on. Is stuff realistic? Enough thinking on Erik's part? Too much? Not enough? I tried to get in a realistic transition from Christine's love of Erik to her non-love/fear/whatever you want to call it. I hope it's realistic although I guess it's complicated since we don't really know what she's thinking. Well, I mean you as the reader don't. Anyway, let me know! : )**

** Okay, hopefully I'll update again soon!**

** I love you guys!**

** ~Ice Cliff**


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